OFR 13

13. A Playboy Son and a Gambling Father

“A playboy son and a gambling father!”

Tennyson muttered gloomily as he climbed the stairs. He had no idea how much his father had lost today. His father’s utter lack of sense when it came to money was one problem, but the gambling house that endlessly lent him more was another.

He walked down a corridor hazy with cigarette smoke. The raucous laughter and the spinning of the roulette wheel from the lower floor made him feel as though the whole place were mocking him.

“Here.”

The man walking ahead opened a door for him, smiling faintly as he turned back. As he brushed past Tennyson, he patted him on the shoulder a couple of times as if to encourage him. Annoyance flashed across Tennyson’s face.

When he opened the door, his father—Baron Franz—was sprawled across the sofa, dice in hand.

Suddenly, Tennyson felt tired of it all.

Should I just die already?

Hope had long since drained away, leaving only despair in its place. When his mother had been alive, things had been good. They hadn’t been rich, but there had been a warm breakfast waiting every morning, and his father had been a hardworking man who loved his family.

But after his mother passed, everything changed. His father started drinking every day, and one day, claiming he’d earn some money, he left the house and didn’t come back until dawn. By the time Tennyson discovered his father was frequenting gambling dens, it was already too late.

He was only a baron, but still a nobleman. Soon, even that might be gone. Selling the title wouldn’t come close to paying off their debts. He didn’t care much for the title itself, but once word spread at the Academy, he’d become the talk of the town again.

A baron turned commoner teaching political science! The young noble brats who already looked down on him would have a field day. A professor who sold his title? How obedient he must be!

Even without that, being an Academy professor was a job full of petty politics and endless gossip.

Things were better when people just called me a ‘genius of the century.’ The position of professor never truly suited him. But what choice did he have? He had to eat. Without this job, he’d be out on the streets.

Sighing for what felt like the hundredth time, Tennyson dragged his feet.

When his father’s limp weight started to feel unbearable, the stairs appeared. He briefly wondered if carrying his father on his back would be easier, but before he could decide, a commotion erupted behind him. Too preoccupied, he didn’t even turn to look and cautiously began to descend.

“Thief!” someone shouted.

Thief?

Tennyson scoffed. There wasn’t a single person in this den who had the right to call anyone a thief. This place was a nest of thieves—built on lies and deceit.

The noise grew louder. The drunk men who had been lying near the doorway earlier now brandished swords and ran up the stairs he had just come down from. Tennyson, half-supporting his father, could only catch a glimpse before having to focus on getting down safely.

“Fire!”

Smoke began to rise. In an instant, the place that had been full of laughter, alcohol, and cigarette smoke turned into chaos.

“Damn it!”

Nothing ever went smoothly for him. The world seemed to spin just fine for everyone else—so why did his days always turn out like this? Someone shoved past him, almost sending him tumbling down the stairs. He barely caught the railing, cold sweat trickling down his spine.

Finally reaching the bottom, Tennyson wiped his brow and scanned for the exit. The crowd pushing to escape made it impossible to use the main entrance.

Baron Franz was still unconscious. Tennyson sighed, adjusted his grip, and turned toward the opposite side of the hall. A place like this was bound to have an emergency exit—or at least a back door near the kitchen for throwing out trash.

Sure enough, there it was. The small side door led into the kitchen, now deserted. Grunting with effort, Tennyson dragged his father outside. The night air, which had felt chilly earlier, now seemed blissfully cool.

A large carriage stood right in front of the door, almost blocking it. Tennyson barely registered how odd it was for a public carriage to be parked in such an alley. His mind was entirely on the limp man hanging from his arm.

Just as he tried to move past the carriage, the door swung open. Startled, Tennyson stepped aside and looked inside—only to freeze.

“Get in!”

Roderick Whittegar grinned at him from inside.

Inside the carriage was another passenger—a young woman. She looked at Tennyson urgently.

“Quickly, get in!”

Tennyson wanted nothing more. Anything to get away from that hellish place. But he wasn’t alone. Struggling to haul his father into the carriage, he suddenly felt the heavy weight lift. Someone had picked his father up with ease.

He turned to see a tall man dressed head-to-toe in black, face covered by a mask. The man effortlessly loaded the heavy baron into the carriage, then held out his hand to Tennyson. When Tennyson hesitated, the man twitched his fingers.

“Take it.”

The moment their hands met, Tennyson felt himself lifted off the ground and pulled inside. Another man climbed in behind him, and the carriage sped off into the night.

Despite its plain exterior, the interior was far more spacious and refined. The seats were upholstered in soft leather, and the ride was remarkably smooth.

The masked man removed his disguise, revealing a beautiful, delicate face framed by silver hair that shimmered even in the dark. Tennyson gasped.

Ian Lombardi!

The hand that had gripped his was hard and calloused—a swordsman’s hand. The golden eyes, once thought gentle, now carried a chilling weight; the silvery hair glowed with a quiet, dangerous grace.

People often said Ian Lombardi was weak compared to the Crown Prince—and Tennyson had agreed. But at that moment, he was forced to revise his opinion.

Face-to-face with Ian Lombardi, he felt as though he’d met a predator.

He wanted to scream, but instead, his glare landed on the far easier target—Roderick Whittegar. That bastard’s presence here made it clear he was part of this.

“Lady, this.”

Ian handed a ledger to the young woman in the carriage. She flipped through it, snapped it shut, and looked at Tennyson. Then, as though unsure how to proceed, she glanced toward Roderick.

Caught between their gazes, Roderick raised his hands.

“Tennyson, I helped you, alright? Don’t look at me like that. Anyway—this is my younger sister, Edna Whittegar. Edna, this sorry-looking fellow we just rescued is Tennyson Franz, the same one every lady in the capital’s been gossiping about. And this is Duke Ian Lombardi, with his aide, Sir Henry.”

Even under normal circumstances, meeting the legendary Duke Lombardi and the prodigious Henry Vern would’ve been nerve-racking. But like this—disheveled, at midnight, in a stolen carriage? Tennyson wanted to sink into the ground. Preferably somewhere far away from Roderick Whittegar.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Edna Whittegar.”

Though her eyes were the same blue as Roderick’s, they were completely different—clear and calm where his were mocking and sharp. Tennyson’s eyes widened briefly before he composed himself.

Edna’s gaze shifted to the window. Outside, red flames painted the black sky. Her eyes dimmed as she looked back at him.

“It’s unfortunate we had to meet under such circumstances. I would’ve preferred better ones.”

She opened the ledger.

“Your father borrowed one hundred gold coins today. With interest, that will become one hundred twenty by tomorrow. Considering all the other unpaid debts, compounded with interest, the total now stands at ten thousand gold.”

She looked straight at him.

“If you cannot repay the amount by the end of this week, neither your title nor your life will cover the cost.”

Her words were merciless for a first meeting. The amount was so absurd that Tennyson couldn’t even be angry—only laugh hollowly.

“I knew it’d be a lot… but not that much.”

Edna continued evenly, “I suspected as much. So when you were drinking in that place…”

She frowned, pausing for a breath.

“Do you even know what kind of place that was? Or what happens to those who fail to repay their debts there?”

Tennyson said nothing. He had assumed it was merely a seedy social club for nobles. Clearly, it was much worse.

“That den is secretly run by the Crown Prince,” Edna said coldly. “The ownership may appear under another name, but every coin earned there ends up in his pocket.”

She tapped the ledger with one finger, deep in thought.

In her past life, Tennyson had failed to escape his debts. His father had been taken away and tortured to death, and Tennyson himself had become the Crown Prince’s strategist—ironically, to repay the very debt that had destroyed him.

The Crown Prince had promised him a vast fortune, most of which, Edna was certain, had come from Whittegar’s coffers.