Gordon had assumed Rus would take him to the study. Instead, after winding through several halls and stairways, they ended up… in the kitchen.
As a castle with some history behind it, Hawk's Keep had a fairly sizable kitchen. At the center sat a five-meter-long island—two massive wooden tables pushed together. Along the right-hand wall stood a towering oven large enough to roast an entire pig.
Behind the island was a stove with three fire pits and six burners. Its surface was blackened with soot, and from above hung countless aged hams and slabs of smoked meat. One of the fire pits still glowed with faint embers.
Rus looked around until his gaze landed on the far-right shelf, where three long, crusty loaves of bread sat waiting.
Each was nearly a meter long, as thick as a man's forearm, and so hard it could probably be used in place of a crowbar.
Feeling the weight in his hand and the browned, crusty surface, Rus marveled aloud:
"The chef here must have trained as a blacksmith."
Gordon blinked. "My lord… what exactly are you doing?"
"I'm hungry," Rus replied matter-of-factly. "Would you like something to eat?"
A noble maintaining aloof dignity before the common folk was a show of power—but Gordon wasn't a commoner. He had served the Claydon family for over forty years, and by now, his fate was bound to theirs. He would never do anything to tarnish the family's name or interests.
Gordon shook his head. "No, Lord Rus."
"Your loss," Rus said with a grin. He set the bread down on the island, stirred the ashes in the fire pit, and added straw and firewood.
As the fire grew, he rummaged beneath the counter and pulled out two onions, which he began peeling with practiced ease.
"Tell me about Elaina," he said as he worked.
Gordon took a moment to compose his words. "Elaina. Thirty-four years old. Married at twenty to a wealthy merchant in Moen named Fedor. Gave birth to a son, Weston, at twenty-one."
"Fedor passed away when she was twenty-six. She inherited all his assets and business holdings."
"At thirty—four years ago—she married Baron Donald, bringing with her a dowry of two thousand gold coins. In exchange, Donald formally acknowledged Weston as his stepson and granted him inheritance rights within the Claydon line."
Rus, now slicing mushrooms with smooth precision, didn't even look up. "It sounds like you've left something out, Mr. Gordon."
"I only stated the facts," Gordon replied politely. "As for my personal opinion of her—I'd rather not bias your judgment."
Rus nodded approvingly. He set a cast-iron pan over the flame and tossed in a generous chunk of butter.
"I've heard of the Fedor Trading Company. Mostly dealt in grain, right? I didn't realize it was being run by a woman."
"She must've been stunning to marry into wealth at twenty," he mused. "Nowadays, it's hard for a woman to inherit a fortune—far easier for her to become the fortune."
"To take over Fedor's empire means she's sharp, and shrewd."
"And to spend two thousand gold to marry into nobility, just so her son could gain a title? That tells me she's focused. Calculating."
The butter was melting, bubbling as the mushrooms hit the pan. A rich aroma began to fill the room. Rus inhaled deeply, savoring it. Then he stirred in flour to begin thickening the roux.
"I'll bet she's never once shared a bed with Donald, has she?"
Gordon hesitated before answering. "Since marrying into the family, she's rarely returned to Hawk Town. But she's kept a consistent schedule—once every three months, always staying for exactly three days."
Rus slowly poured in milk, stirring gently as he processed the picture forming in his mind.
A beautiful heiress. A clever businesswoman.
And like all merchants, the sharpest among them valued profit and balance above all.
He was beginning to see how he might deal with his unseen step-aunt.
"When's her next visit?"
Gordon pulled out a worn notebook and adjusted his monocle. "At the soonest, two days. At the latest… four."
"Got it."
The soup was now thickening, its aroma a luscious blend of milk, mushrooms, and butter.
Stirring with a ladle, Rus asked, "What about Weston? What kind of person is my dear cousin?"
"Tall. Strong," Gordon replied. "He was expelled from Asberl Academy at the start of the year for assaulting a classmate. He's been homeschooled since."
Rus nodded thoughtfully.
Asberl was a prestigious noble academy in Moen. Academics were secondary—most noble families sent their children there to make connections. The school only accepted students between the ages of 7 and 12.
Weston was already thirteen, which meant he'd stayed longer than most—likely thanks to hefty donations from Elaina. That spoke to how much she doted on him.
Yet even with all that investment, he was expelled. The offense had to be serious—he must've offended someone he really shouldn't have.
A spoiled, reckless second-generation rich kid.
A weakness Rus could exploit.
He added a pinch of salt, then lifted the ladle for a final taste.
Perfect.
A pot of creamy mushroom soup was complete.
"Would you like some?" Rus asked, ladling himself a full bowl and glancing at Gordon.
Gordon swallowed unconsciously. He looked tempted—but shook his head out of habit, ever the proper servant.
Rus didn't insist. He sat at the island, scooped up a spoonful, and tasted it with a hum of deep satisfaction.
Butter, mushrooms, warm milk, and toasty flour combined into a rich, velvety flavor that revitalized his weary body with the very first bite.
Confucius once said: "Fine food is never too refined, nor mincemeat too delicate."
Rus lived by that when it came to food.
He could compromise on many things—but never his stomach.
That's why, even in his past life, despite only earning 7 k after tax each month, he still rented a 2,5k apartment.
Because it had a kitchen.
Because he could cook.
He tore a piece of the hardened bread, dipped it into the soup until it soaked through, then bit into it.
The result? Heavenly.
The crust softened just enough, while retaining its chew. The wheat flavor blended with the savory soup—it was a masterclass in texture and taste.
Gordon watched him with quiet awe.
This Rus was nothing like the man who'd first arrived.
He looked the same, but his eyes were different. Back then, they were restless, evasive, unprepared for the responsibilities of nobility. His speech and behavior reeked of a back-alley street rat, with none of the dignity a noble should carry.
But now?
His handling of Erik had been swift, decisive, mature. It looked impulsive, but was actually calculated to perfection. Even though he'd used threats, he left Erik room to breathe—so he wouldn't become resentful.
And his take on Elaina wasn't clouded by prejudice. He treated her as a serious adversary, a challenge worth respecting.
Yes, Gordon thought to himself, this young master Rus… truly is different.
Having served the Claydon family for over forty years, Gordon knew its history—and its secrets—better than anyone. Even the ones Baron Donald believed he'd hidden flawlessly.
Out of loyalty, Gordon had never reported what he knew. He simply kept it to himself.
So when Donald died, he didn't mourn. And when Rus arrived, he had no real opinion—favorable or otherwise.
But that had changed.
In Rus, he saw something new: the possibility of restoring the Claydon name. A future. A hope.
Better Rus than some merchant's son with no true Claydon blood staining the family legacy.
Perhaps that's why Rus had focused on Erik instead of him. Not out of distrust—but because he already had Gordon's loyalty. That insight alone showed his sharp instincts.
"Something on my face, Mr. Gordon?" Rus asked, setting aside his empty bowl.
"No, my lord," Gordon replied, snapping out of his thoughts. "Just a wandering old man's mind."
"Then get some rest," Rus said as he stood. He walked over and patted the older man on the shoulder. "Thank you for your help tonight. Let's talk tomorrow about how to handle Uncle Donald's… aftermath."
Gordon bowed deeply. "As you command, my lord."
Rus made his way through the corridors and arrived at the Baron's bedchamber. The moment he kicked off his shoes—without even bothering to undress—he collapsed onto the soft bed, utterly drained.
It was the kind of exhaustion only someone who'd been running on fumes for days could understand.
In the distance, he imagined the King of Hell grumbling about overtime.
And yet—he slept better than he had in years. His body felt light, rejuvenated, powerful—like he was twenty years old again.
Which, in fact, he now was.
And that was the part that made Rus panic.
Because in his old world, whenever sleep felt this good, it only meant one thing:
He was late.
He sat bolt upright in bed, heart racing—then relaxed when he saw the sunlight pouring in through the window.
A slow grin crept onto his face.
"I'm Rus Claydon now."
"The primary heir of the Claydon family."
Yes—he had transmigrated. He was no longer a corporate drone, slaving away in a mindless 9-to-9, six-day-a-week grind. This new body was twenty years old, brimming with energy.
And he could enjoy everything that came with it—undisturbed sleep, a spacious bed in a room bigger than his old apartment…
And an entire castle.
Hawk's Keep was built against a mountain, spanning nearly 5,000 square meters. Aside from the courtyard and walls, the main structure took up about a quarter of the space.
The castle itself stood seventeen meters high, four stories tall. As far as baronial castles went, it had everything—and then some.
A grand hall, an armory, a prayer room, meeting rooms, guest chambers, a study, a kitchen, and even lavatories.
Not to mention living quarters for the lord, guests, and staff. More than forty rooms in total.
On his first day, Rus had done nothing but explore—and even that had taken half the day.
In his previous life, "apartment" was a generous term. It was barely twenty square meters, partitioned from someone else's home. The walls were paper-thin—if you sneezed too loudly, you'd get complaints from three directions.
But here?
Here, he could shout at the top of his lungs and no one would hear. No one would dare complain.
"Ahhhhh—!"
Rus let out a long, contented groan as he stretched, then rolled out of his silk-covered bed. Barefoot, he padded across the plush carpet to the window, placing his hands on the cold granite windowsill.
His heart burned with warmth.
This was the highest point in the castle—offering a panoramic view of everything the Claydons owned.
To the south, a vast green plain spread as far as the eye could see. Hawk Town lay nestled within it, morning mist and chimney smoke weaving together like threads of silver.
To the west of the town, hundreds of acres of cultivated farmland stretched across the land. Already, farmers were hard at work—tilling, planting, guiding oxen through the soil. A scene of bustling, hopeful life.
The golden ribbon of the Sands River cut diagonally from northeast to southwest, dividing the land in two.
On this side: farmland.
On the far side: resources.
To the east, a forest stretched into the mountains—rich with pine for fuel and beech for crafting longbows.
Due south, a quarry carved into the hillside gleamed faintly. Its granite was prized across the region, and over three hundred miners worked there. Much of the castle had been built using that very stone.
Further southwest, the Hawk Mountains climbed toward the clouds. Beyond them lay the infamous Blood Highlands—a haven for criminals, monsters, and everything foul. The breeding ground for chaos on the continent.
And to the far west, a much larger town—Goldflash—thrived.
One road led east from the quarry to Hawk Town.
Another wound southward, looping around before connecting to Viscount Wharton's territory. Follow that road for a few weeks, and you'd arrive at Moen City, jewel of the empire's northwest.
Thanks to its geography, Goldflash had become the trading hub of the region, far surpassing the farming-dependent Hawk Town in both population and tax revenue.
Everything within view—on both sides of the river—belonged to the Claydon family.
And with that thought, something ignited inside Rus.
Ambition.
In his past life, he was just another faceless employee, buried in presentations, summaries, reports—lucky if he got a full night's sleep once a week.
He had no dreams. No ambition. No time for either.
But now?
Now he was Rus Claydon.
If he secured the barony, he'd gain the right to add "Alta" to his name.
He would become a true noble.
His eyes scanned the land, drinking in every detail with a hunger he hadn't felt in years. He clenched his fists tightly, as if trying to seize it all in his grasp.
"This… this shall be my domain."
And no one—no matter who they were—will take it from me.