Duke Alaric placed his hand on Julian’s back, and his grip tightened slightly—not enough to hurt, but enough to be felt. It was a silent claim.

"Is that so?" The Marquis tilted his head, his gaze flickering to the pinky promise Lucius and Alaric had just shared. "It seems my son has made himself quite at home in your heart, Your Grace. I hope he hasn’t forgotten his place in his haste to recover."

The insult was wrapped in layers of etiquette, but the sting was clear. He was reminding Julian that he was still an illegitimate ’mistake,’ no matter who was feeding him porridge.

Duke Alaric finally stood up. He rose to his full, towering height, oppressing the height of the Marquis as he stood. He stepped away from the bed, but only to put himself directly between Julian and his father.

"His place," Alaric said, his voice deepening by the second, "...is wherever I decide it is. And right now, Marquis, your presence is tiring my patient. Now that you have seen your son is no longer on death’s door, perhaps you should make your exit."

The Marquis’s smile didn’t falter, but his eyes narrowed as he looked into Alaric’s cold blue eyes. He bowed low, the fabric of his expensive robes swishing. "As you wish, Your Grace. Julian... we will speak again when you are less ’tired’."

As the Marquis turned to leave, the System window in front of Julian’s eyes flared a bright, warning red.

> [WARNING: CHARACTER INFLUENCE SHIFT] 𝘧𝓇𝑒𝑒𝑤ℯ𝑏𝓃𝘰𝑣ℯ𝘭.𝘤ℴ𝘮

> The Marquis Astrea’s Suspicion Level: 75%

> New Objective: Prevent the Marquis from selling your ’Loyalty’ to the Emperor.

The Marquis exited with a final, lingering look at Julian—a kind of look that held the calculation of a merchant weighing a valuable asset. The door clicked shut, leaving a silence that felt heavier than the noise.

Julian stared into the air, his eyes fixed on the red text of the System window.

> New Objective: Prevent the Marquis from selling your ’Loyalty’ to the Emperor.

A bitter taste filled his mouth just looking at it. He had always known his father was a hypocrite, a man who saw family only as a ladder for his own ambition. But the idea that the Marquis was already planning to use Julian’s survival to bridge the gap to the Emperor made his stomach churn.

It was a sick joke.

The Marquis wanted to sell him to the very man who had watched him bleed out in the dirt. The very man who wanted Julian dead.

The duke turned, planning to pick up from where he stopped. Where was he? Oh, yes. He was just about to spoon-feed Julian. He didn’t show it, but he was looking forward to it.

The tension in the room hadn’t even begun to settle when another knock sounded, and before Alaric could even grant permission—if he ever planned to grant permission—the door swung open.

A group of figures in pristine, white robes embroidered with silver ley-lines filed in.

Julian looked at them and sensed the air around them, his breath catching in that moment. These people...

They were Mages, and high Healers from the Imperial Sanctum.

In this world, the Imperial Sanctum was effectively the Emperor’s golden leash. It was the highest institution for magical learning, but it served a dual purpose: while it produced the most skilled healers in the empire, every spell performed by a Sanctum mage carried a unique ’Imperial Frequency’—a magical watermark that smoothed over injuries with terrifying efficiency but left a trace of the Sanctum’s power in the patient’s body.

It was similar to getting direct healing from the Holy Empire that shared a border with the Viremount Empire.

But unlike they, who use the power of their god’s blessing, the mages use magic drawn from the earth and alchemy.

To the public, getting treated by these high healers was premium standard of care. But to someone like Julian, it was a way for the Emperor to keep a silent, magical finger on his pulse.

Julian felt a cold shiver crawl down his spine. Their presence here wasn’t just a gesture of royal kindness; it was a move to reclaim the ’witness’ who had survived the pit.

Alaric’s shoulders stiffened, a low growl of annoyance rising in his throat. He looked ready to draw his sword from whatever corner he had tossed it to.

The head healer bowed, though it was a shallow, formal thing that did not measure up to his own pride. "Your Grace."

He stepped forward two steps, his robe sweeping the floor, and the silver ornament around his neck clinking annoyingly.

"We are here on His Majesty the Emperor’s direct mandate. We have brought celestial catalysts to ensure Master Astrea’s recovery is completed by the weekend. His Majesty is eager for the tutor to return to his duties and be officially appointed as the Royal Tu—."

"Get out," Alaric hissed, interrupting the head healer coldly with a gaze that could strip him of the very skin he was proud of.

The head healer flinched. Did he hear that wrong? He wondered, but the Duke did not repeat himself, merely viewing them as pests he needed to sweep away soon so Julian could have peace of mind.

The healers exchanged puzzled glances at first, and even Julian wondered what the Duke was planning.

"It seems I misheard you, Your Grace," he said, his voice tightening as he tried to regain his footing and say his rehearsed line with eloquence. "In any case, this treatment is far superior to any herbal concoction that the Imperial physicians made. With our help, within two days, Master Astrea will walk again, and then the Emperor—"

"I said, get out!" Alaric roared.

He stepped forward, and the sheer pressure of his presence was like a weight atop their shoulder. The air in the room grew heavy, and it felt like the Duke would snap soon.

Listening to them go on about Royal Tutor and the Emperor made his blood boil. He couldnt stand it.

Alaric didn’t wait for them to find their pride. He physically crowded the group toward the door, his massive frame looming over them like a predatory beast defending its den. He knew exactly what that ’Royal Tutor’ appointment meant—it was a gilded cage, a way to keep Julian under the thumb of the Sanctum and the Emperor’s watchful eyes forever.

And letting the healers from the Imperial sanctum work their ’magic’ on Julian was no different than letting the Emperor weave puppet strings into Julian’s limbs.