Chapter 379
The heavy main doors had barely clicked shut behind Bahamut and Aasterinian before the silence of the manor began to press in on Draco.
The two deities had departed with an almost infectious zeal, their minds set on a shopping expedition that promised to deplete a significant portion of the familia’s assets.
Draco, however, remained behind, his eyes immediately falling to the floor.
The transition from the chaotic energy of the deities to the stagnant air of the estate was jarring. He looked down at the kitchen floor, where the playful scuffle of the morning had left a series of unsightly marks.
Without a word, he fetched a bucket and a coarse cloth.
It was a repetitive, meditative task…..kneeling on the cold floor, scrubbing with a rhythmic force until all the mark’s were gone.
Once the kitchen was restored to its former glory, Draco didn't stop.
He stood, wiping the moisture from his brow, and began a slow circuit of the estate.
The Bahamut Familia manor was a beautiful piece of architecture, perhaps a bit too massive.
As he walked the corridors, he kept a mental ledger of the neglect that had seeped into certain corners of the property.
There were rooms on the first and second floors that had remained untouched for days, where the air felt thick and the sunlight revealed dancing motes of dust settling over the furniture like a velvet shroud.
He moved to the exterior, stepping out into the garden.
It was here that the passage of time was most evident.
Some patches of grass, had grown shaggy and unkempt.
Certain fountains, were silent, their basins slick with a dull green film of algae.
The statues of draconic figures, meant to inspire awe, merely looked weary under the weight of accumulated grime.
By the time he reached the far edge of the property line, Draco stopped.
He leaned against a stone pillar, the sheer scale of the maintenance tasks ahead weighing on his mind like a physical burden.
A deep sigh escaped him.
‘Why did I commission such a needlessly large estate again?’ he wondered, a flicker of genuine regret crossing his face.
His past self, might have appreciated the opulence, but now, as the one responsible for its upkeep, it felt like an anchor.
He missed the others; their absence made the silence of the halls feel heavier, more demanding.
“Maybe hiring some long-term external help is the way to go,” he muttered to the empty garden.
The thought lingered for a moment before his instincts revolted.
The idea of strangers wandering through his halls, touching his things, breathing his air, felt like a violation of his territory.
It was an irritation that he couldn't quite shake.
The only logical compromise was the recruitment of low-tier members into the Bahamut Familia. They would serve as the backbone of the household, handling the mundane chores while gaining the protection and prestige of the name.
But recruitment was a slow process, and his problems were immediate.
Draco turned away from the slightly overgrown garden and retreated back inside.
He climbed the stairs to the third floor, his boots echoing sharply against the wood.
His office was his first true destination.
Before he could justify the physical labor of weeding and scrubbing, he had to conquer the mountain of paperwork that had accumulated.
He sat at his heavy desk, the reports and financial statements staring back at him.
He reached up, gathered his long silver hair, and tied it into a tight bun.
He gritted his teeth, dipped his pen into the inkwell, and began.
The scratch of the nib against parchment was the only sound for hours.
He balanced the ledgers, sorted the familia’s taxes, and mapped out the projected expenses for the coming few months……..factoring in the inevitable "chaos budget" required by unfortunate whims.
Time seemed to warp under the intensity of his focus.
In what felt like the blink of an eye, the harsh, bright blue of the midday sky outside his window had softened, transforming into a deep, bruised purple streaked with veins of fiery orange.
The sun was dipping below the horizon, casting long, dramatic shadows across his desk.
Draco finally set the pen down.
His fingers were cramped, but the desk was clear.
He rose and headed back outside, the cool evening air hitting his face.
He spent the remaining hour of light in a frenzy of activity.
He trimmed the lawn with a precision that bordered on the obsessive, scrubbed the fountains until the water ran clear, and restocked the pantry with fresh supplies.
Finally, he stood in the center of the garden, wiping the sweat and dirt from his face.
A triumphant, if tired, smile graced his lips.
The estate was clean.
The garden was sorted.
The paperwork was done.
He felt a rare sense of accomplishment……the kind that came not from a dungeon floor, but from the quiet victory of order over chaos.
“Looks like it’s around half past six,” Draco muttered, glancing at the darkening sky.
The party hosted by the Ganesha Familia was scheduled for eight in the evening.
There was still a window of time to visit the Guild, handle his final errands, and return to escort the goddesses.
He noted that Bahamut and Aasterinian were still nowhere to be seen.
It was unusual, but not alarming; Bahamut had mentioned the temple bathhouses.
Those facilities were the exclusive domain of deities, and he knew that once a group of goddesses began gossiping in the steam, time ceased to have any meaning.
Draco returned the cleaning tools to the shed, his movements precise even in his exhaustion.
He retreated to his personal quarters, stripping away his soiled clothing and stepping into a scalding shower.
The water washed away the grime of the day and the mental fog of the paperwork.
Afterward, he dressed in one of the outdoor attires that the tailor had delivered that morning.
It was a set of fine, durable clothes that balanced elegance with the necessity of movement…..black trousers, a grey shirt, and a thick cloak bearing the familia insignia.
Leaving the estate, he headed toward the main western road.
The Bahamut Familia estate was situated in the northwestern area of Orario, a relatively busy district, making the walk to the Guild tough and inefficient.
As he walked, he felt the usual weight of public attention.
People stared…..that was a constant.
However, the nature of the stares had shifted.
Usually, there was a hint of fear, a wide berth given to the "monster" who had quailed the horrors of five years ago.
But today, several adventurers…..vaguely familiar faces from the lower ranks….offered cheerful nods or voiced brief greetings as he passed.
“Good evening, Sir Draco!” a young adventurer called out, waving tentatively from a group outside a tavern.
Draco paused, his sharp eyes scanning the faces.
After a moment’s search of his memory, it clicked.
These were some of the adventurers who had been at the Hostess of Fertility the previous night. He had ended up footing a massive bill for the entire room in a fit of chaotic generosity.
He offered a short, polite nod.
“Good evening.”
The reaction was immediate…..the group relaxed, some even grinning.
By paying for their drinks, he hadn’t just settled a tab; he had chipped away at the wall of fear he’d built five years ago.
To the current city inhabitants, he was no longer just a terrifying relic of the war; he was a man who appreciated good ale and had the Valis to share it.
It was a brittle bridge, but it was a bridge nonetheless.
Within minutes, the grand facade of the Guild building rose up before him.
Draco paused at the entrance, a flicker of reluctance keeping his feet planted on the cobblestones.
The timing was unfortunate.
The sun had set, and the Guild hall was currently a hive of activity.
This was the peak hour for lower-level adventurers…….those who hunted in the upper floors and returned before the shadows grew too long.
He observed the building itself.
Compared to the tattered, scarred structure he remembered from five years ago, the current Guild was a fortress.
It was grander, reinforced with heavy stone and polished wood, looking ready to withstand another siege.
‘The war really must have shook Royman to the core,’ Draco mused.
He recalled the image of the chubby elven guild leader, a man who had practically melted away layers of fat from the sheer stress of the conflict half a decade ago.
A low, involuntary chuckle escaped Draco’s lips.
The sound drew several curious stares from the surrounding crowd.
Ignoring them, Draco adjusted his cloak and stepped into the humid, bustling interior of the main hall.
He scanned the kiosks, his eyes searching for Rose Fannett.
She was his usual contact, the one who handled his more delicate inquiries.
To his disappointment, her usual station was empty.
Draco scanned the other booths before resignedly joining the shortest line.
While he waited, his gaze drifted through the crowd.
In a sea of generic armor and weary faces, two figures stood out.
Near one of the side pillars, he saw a familiar tuff of white hair.
Bell Cranel.
Beside him was the half-elf Eina Tulle, who appeared to be in the middle of a stern lecture, her finger wagging at the boy.
Draco studied Eina for a moment.
He had seen her pictures in his previous life, but the reality was far more striking.
There was a grace to her movements and a sharp intelligence in her eyes that the images hadn't captured.
Perhaps it was the weight of his stare, or perhaps it was Bell’s intuition, but the boy suddenly turned.
Their eyes met.
Bell’s reaction was instantaneous; his face flushed a brilliant red and he immediately looked down, scurrying to cover his face with his palms.
‘He’s likely remembering his performance at the tavern,’ Draco thought dryly.
The boy’s frantic reaction naturally drew Eina’s attention.
She followed Bell’s gaze until she locked onto Draco.
For a split second, she looked curious, her head tilting slightly as she assessed the unusual silver-haired, dark skinned man.
But as she saw Bell’s apparent distress, her expression hardened.
A reprimanding scowl crossed her face.
She turned back to Bell, speaking in a low, consoling tone and patting his shoulder as if he had just survived a traumatic encounter.
Bell, for his part, looked even more confused by the sudden comfort.
Draco blinked, perplexed.
“Does she think I bullied him?” he muttered.
It was the only logical conclusion.
Eina was famously protective of Bell, and seeing the boy cowering after making eye contact with a man of Draco's reputation probably painted a very specific, and entirely wrong, picture.
Deciding it wasn't worth the effort to correct the misunderstanding, Draco looked away.
He had no interest in getting involved in the drama of a love-struck guild employee.
Finally, the line moved forward, and Draco stepped up to the booth.
Behind the counter was a girl with mid-length pink hair and matching eyes.
She was shuffling papers with a frantic, slightly disorganized energy.
‘Misha Flott,’ Draco recalled.
She was a secondary character he remembered from his past life….distinctive, albeit prone to blunders.
“How can I help you today?” Misha asked, her voice professional but her eyes widening as they traveled up to Draco’s draconic features.
She froze for a heartbeat, her mouth hanging open.
“Ah, the monster!” she exclaimed, pointing a finger at him.
The hall went silent.
Every head turned.
The murmurs began instantly, a ripple of whispering that filled the room.
Misha’s face went pale as she realized what she had just shouted.
“Ah! Sorry! I didn’t mean….that was….ah!” she stammered, waving her hands frantically.
Draco remained unmoved.
The outcry didn't bother him; he was well aware of her reputation for being somewhat irresponsible and blunt.
“No worries,” he said, his voice calm and level.
“I have business to attend to.”
Misha swallowed hard, trying to regain her composure.
“Right. Yes. Of course. How can I help?”
“First, I need to update the records for the Bahamut Familia,” Draco said.
“Specifically, formalizing my return to the city after a five-year absence.”
Misha nodded, her quill scratching across a fresh sheet of parchment with a speed born of nervous energy.
They worked through the formalities quickly.
Then, Draco leaned in slightly.
“Next, I need to settle the remainder of my debt from five years ago.”
In the aftermath of the war, Draco had owed the Guild a staggering sum for reparations and logistics.
He had paid off a massive portion before his departure, but a balance had remained.
To his relief, Misha confirmed that the debt had remained interest-free.
After a few minutes of calculating, Draco handed over a heavy stack of valis.
“That should clear the account,” he said.
“It does,” Misha said, looking relieved.
“Is there anything else?”
“I am looking for Rose Fannett.”
Misha looked at her schedule and shook her head.
“Oh, Rose? It’s her day off. She won’t be back in until tomorrow morning.”
Draco felt a twinge of frustration.
He knew her home address, but showing up at a guild employee’s house on her day off was a line he wasn't willing to cross.
It was unprofessional and would likely cause more trouble than it was worth.
“I see. I’ll return tomorrow then,” Draco said.
He turned and pushed his way through the crowd, ignoring the lingering stares and the way Eina was still watching him with narrowed, suspicious eyes.
The air outside the Guild was cooler now, the city lights beginning to flicker to life.
The schedule for the day was almost complete.
He had cleaned his home, balanced his books, and cleared his debts.
Now, the final task remained.
He had to return to the estate and ensure that the two goddesses were actually prepared for Ganesha’s party.
Knowing Aasterinian and Bahamut, that would likely be the most difficult challenge of the entire day.
Draco set off into the evening, his silver hair catching the glow of the magic lamps lining the streets of Orario.
The city was waking up for the night, and he had a long night ahead of him.
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