It was around 10:00 AM when Arthur left the Viscount’s office. His next destination was clear: The Library.

  Unlike the opulent guest rooms above, the library was hidden in the basement, away from guests and prying eyes. Only those living or working in the mansion knew its true scale. It was rumored to hold a massive collection—a silent testament to the past glory of the Ashborn family when they were still Dukes.

  Navigating the stairs downward proved treacherous. Arthur gripped the stone railing with white-knuckled intensity, painstakingly lowering himself step by step on his crutches to avoid tumbling headfirst into the dark.

  At last, panting slightly, he reached the bottom. The doors loomed before him—not gold or silver like his father’s office, but old, reinforced ironwood, tall and imposing, guarding the secrets of the past.

  Arthur hobbled closer. The smell hit him before he entered: decaying paper, ink, and dust. To most boys, it smelled like boredom. To Arthur Vance, it smelled like heaven.

  Sitting on a stool beside the door was a man who looked as ancient as the wood itself.

  “Halt,” the old man grunted, not even looking up from his whittling knife. “No children. No noise. No food. Leave.”

  Arthur blinked at the unfriendly tone but didn’t back down. He reached into his pocket and presented the heavy iron key.

  “Excuse me, Old Marcus. Here is the key my father gave me to access the library.”

  The old man froze. His sharp grey eyes scanned Arthur from head to toe before settling on the key.

  “Apologies, Young Master,” he rumbled, his tone shifting to professional respect. “Let me check that.”

  Arthur handed him the key. Marcus inspected it closely, rubbing his thumb over the family crest, then returned it.

  “It is genuine. You may enter. If you need help locating a specific shelf or book, ring the small bell on the desk, and I will assist you.”

  “Thank you, Old Marcus,” Arthur said, pocketing the key. He paused, then added, “Also, please send a servant to find Layla. Tell her to prepare a cup of coffee and join me inside.”

  Marcus raised an eyebrow, genuinely surprised. Coffee—for a thirteen-year-old boy?

  “Hm. Interesting…” he muttered with a dry chuckle. “Rest assured, Young Master. I will relay your request.”

  Arthur nodded and stepped into the library for the first time in his new life.

  The doors groaned shut behind him, sealing out the mansion’s noise.

  Arthur stood in the center, jaw dropping slightly. It was a vast cathedral of knowledge. Rows upon rows of towering bookshelves stretched into the gloom.

  But as his eyes adjusted, he saw the neglect.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  Dust coated the tables. Spiderwebs draped the upper shelves like forgotten decorations. The air was cold and stale, and the magical lamps flickered with a weak, dying orange light.

  “A treasure trove left to rot,” Arthur whispered, running a finger along a nearby table.

  Luckily, despite the dust, the bookshelves were neatly organized. He bypassed fiction and poetry, heading straight for the corner labeled: Ashborn Territory Archives.

  It was crucial to understand the past to plan for the future.

  Arthur dusted off a table and sat on a creaky wooden chair, pulling a thick leather-bound tome toward him. Heavy—the Ledger of Transactions & Territory History.

  He flipped open the first page and began to read.

  Hours passed unnoticed. Layla eventually entered, placed a steaming cup of coffee beside him, and stood silently by the door. Arthur didn’t even glance up. He was completely engrossed—a trait carried over from his university days on Earth. When Arthur Vance researched, the rest of the world ceased to exist.

  Page after page, his eyes scanned numbers, dates, and resource yields, building a mental graph of the family’s history.

  By the time the last sun rays faded from the windows, Layla finally cleared her throat.

  “Young Master… it is dinner time. We should leave for today.”

  Arthur blinked, snapping out of his trance. He looked at the window—pitch black outside. He stretched, his spine popping audibly.

  “Sure, Layla,” he muttered, rubbing his eyes. “I’m tired too. Lead the way.”

  As they left, Arthur gave Old Marcus a respectful nod. The old guard returned it with a stiff bow, his eyes lingering on the boy’s back. He was clearly intrigued; never before had he seen a noble child sit still for eight hours straight.

  Dinner that night was quiet.

  The family sat at the long dining table, silverware clinking in the hall. Oliver’s condition had stabilized enough to join them.

  Arthur ate mechanically, staring at the tablecloth, his fork moving on autopilot. He was running calculations in his head, comparing iron ore prices from fifty years ago to today.

  He didn’t notice his parents’ exchanged glances nor the servants whispering in the corner.

  “Oliver?” his mother asked gently.

  “Hm?” Arthur looked up, blinking. “Ah, sorry, Mother. I was lost in thought. The soup is just too delicious.”

  He finished quickly and excused himself, citing exhaustion.

  As soon as he left, Cecilia turned to Roderick, brow furrowed. “Did you see that? He looked… possessed. He barely spoke.”

  Roderick sipped his wine, thoughtful. “He spent the entire day in the archives. Marcus said he didn’t move once. Perhaps… perhaps the brush with death has made him realize the weight of his name.”

  “I just hope he isn’t pushing himself too hard,” she sighed. “He is still a child.”

  Back in his room, Arthur collapsed onto his bed, exhausted.

  But before sleep, he needed to record his findings. He pulled out a small blank notebook swiped from the library desk and dipped his quill in ink.

  Analysis of Ashborn Decline:

  The Golden Era (200 Years Ago): Family business booming. Dukes. Iron export massive.

  The Plateau (70 Years Ago): Growth slowed but continued.

  The Drop (60 Years Ago): Critical anomaly. Income cut by 50% in a single year. No record of why.

  The Current State: Income is now only 25% of its peak, and there are massive debts.

  “It doesn’t add up,” Arthur whispered. “No war, no plague, no fire fifty years ago. The income just… vanished.”

  He folded the parchment and hid it, along with the quill, under his mattress.

  Preparing for sleep, his mind already planned tomorrow’s grind at the library. He was so focused on the past that he had completely forgotten about the future—specifically, the guests who would soon arrive.

  (To be continued …)