Eric, now composed, sat cross-legged and turned his head to the left, where the voice he'd heard earlier had come from.
"Oh… Looks like a guy straight out of ancient times," he muttered, placing a hand on his chin, visibly intrigued.
The man facing him appeared to be in his sixties. Wrinkles lined his face, and his snow-white hair only accentuated his age. Yet, there was a certain nobility about him — an aura, almost otherworldly in its dignity.
"What's with that butler outfit from a bygone era?" Eric whispered to himself.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Oh, nothing. Who are you?" he asked casually. After all, they were both "old men" — no need for polite pretenses.
He better not hit me with something like, "I have no name. Bestow one upon me, oh creator!" I'd be seriously disappointed in my own imagination if that's the case.
"I am the head butler of the Asgard family. My name is Chris Hartner. Do you not remember, young master?"
Chris's face remained impassive. He simply stared at Eric, unmoved.
Ugh!
Holy crap… That's incredible! It's literally a masterpiece, the way he reacts. It feels so real.
Hmm… If my subconscious can craft a scene this elaborate, wouldn't it only be natural to fully commit to the role?
Eric nodded to himself, convinced by his own logic.
Yes, let's play along!
His expression softened instantly.
Chris, maintaining his indifferent gaze, noticed the subtle shift in the atmosphere around the young master.
"My dear Chris," Eric began with sudden solemnity, "I must apologize for placing you in such an awkward position... I'm not sure why, but my memories are hazy. Of you, and even of myself, I recall almost nothing. Would you be so kind as to tell me everything I need to know?"
Medieval speech, huh?
Not bad… I nailed it.
Yeah, I'd seen that in a stage play once.
Who would've thought it'd actually come in handy someday?
Chris narrowed his eyes ever so slightly at the boy seated in front of him.
"What's the matter, dear butler Chris?" Eric asked, a sly grin playing at his lips.
Has he gone completely mad? Chris wondered, his gaze sharp.
"You truly have no memory, young master?"
"As you can plainly see, my good man," Eric replied, clearly growing more pleased with his own performance by the second.
Was the blow I gave him too harsh?
No... I controlled my strength precisely.
Or perhaps he's weaker than I thought...
...Or he's mocking me.
Yes. That's more like him. He's more than capable of pulling something like this.
Chris let out a quiet sigh.
"Very well, young master. What would you like to know?"
Eric stretched out grandly, like a king on an imaginary throne, then answered in a mock-serious tone:
"Hmm… First of all, I'd like to know about this Asgard family. Who were those people sitting up high during the banquet, staring down at me like I was some kind of zoo exhibit?
Next — why was this dear Eric — that is, myself — excluded from matters of lineage and succession?
Oh, and this whole business about a 'magic clan'… sounds like the plot of a children's book, honestly."
He raised one finger, as if listing items in a formal report.
"I'd also like some information about the currency of this world. And, of course — very important — the local bakeries. Yes. That sort of thing."
With that, he lay back on the floor, hands clasped behind his head, eyes fixed on the ceiling, a satisfied smile creeping across his face.
Let's see just how detailed my imagination really is… hehe.
Chris, for his part, remained motionless. A few veins subtly bulged along his neck, but he forced himself to stay composed.
After all, an order was an order — and this one had come directly from the patriarch.
"…Very well, young master."
---
Five long minutes of explanation later.
Incredible... Since when did I have this kind of storytelling talent?
There were just too many details.
Is it even normal for a hallucination to be this precise?
He could feel everything — the sensations, the weight of his body, even the texture of the floor beneath him — just like in real life.
What if—
No.
What am I even thinking?
If it's this detailed and realistic, then all the better. I'll just play along — fully.
Eric sat up, brows knitted in thought.
"So you're telling me I was the heir of one of the three main clans of the Empire… that I somehow caused chaos in another clan — one with magic or mages, I don't even remember — and those weirdos staring at me from the top seats during the banquet… were my actual family?"
"That is the summary, yes," Chris replied calmly.
Eric blinked.
"And you're saying… there's only one bakery in this entire clan?"
"Yes, young master."
A heavy silence fell between them.
Eric, his gaze empty, suddenly looked as though he were grappling with an existential crisis.
I don't know why… but their system kind of reminds me of ancient China.
Back when I visited, I remember hearing snippets about eras ruled by martial arts sects. And yet, their whole aesthetic screams medieval Europe.
But based on what he's said… a clan here is basically the size of a small nation, right? And there's just one bakery in all that?
He slowly raised his head, his expression darkening.
"…Do people here eat bread often?"
This…!
Chris nearly swore under his breath. His patience frayed, but he held it in.
"No. Bread isn't particularly favored in this region, as its taste is considered… undesirable."
A cold shiver ran down Eric's spine.
His eyes went wide — as if he'd just seen a dragon performing salsa.
He had only asked out of idle curiosity.
He hadn't expected this level of sacrilege.
"WHAT!?! What kind of madness is this?!"
"Young master…" Chris sighed.
Though clearly irritated, he was far too used to the boy's theatrics to be truly fazed.
"'Undesirable taste'? Are you serious right now? What the hell is wrong with this place?!"
Chris remained unfazed.
"Bread is food for the lower class. It's eaten for survival, not enjoyment. It is not a noble dish."
Eric's face twisted in disbelief.
A few veins began to pulse at his temples.
You could humiliate him, strike him, betray him, strip him of his memories, even throw him into some fantasy drama hellscape.
But there was one thing—
One sacred thing that Eric — no, Christian Girard — simply could not tolerate…
It was an insult to bread.
What kind of world… what kind of godforsaken world… doesn't appreciate the taste of bread?
No.
This wasn't a dream.
It couldn't be his dream.
Why on earth would he create such a nightmare?
It was nothing short of… unthinkable.
"You son of a—"
Eric, who in the span of a heartbeat had assembled an entire battalion of insults ready to rain upon this bread-blaspheming lunatic… suddenly froze.
A flash of clarity sliced through the storm of rage.
Wait a second…
So, if he understood this correctly…
Bread held no value here?
In the real world, bread was one of the crown jewels of global cuisine — beloved by rich and poor alike, reinvented in a thousand forms, revered across cultures.
This universal devotion had led to fierce competition among bakers worldwide, and even then, demand always exceeded supply.
But here…
What if… what if in this world, I hold the monopoly over an untapped market?
Silence.
Then:
"Yes… that's it," Eric murmured, a slow grin spreading across his face.
His eyes gleamed with sudden purpose.
My subconscious… literally created the perfect world for me.
Even I'm shocked by my own genius.
With a triumphant smile, he clenched his fist, as though he'd just uncovered a buried treasure.
Oh…
"Now that I think about it… was my skin always this tanned?"
He looked down at his arms, frowning.
Probably not… at least, not that he could recall.
And that wasn't all…
His hands too — they looked… thinner?
A chill ran down his spine.
Wait… don't tell me—
"Chris, bring me a mirror. Now, please."
Without a word, Chris walked over to the far right corner of the grand chamber, where the wardrobe stood.
Just beside it, a full-length mirror awaited — tall, polished, and solemn like some ancient relic.
He grasped it carefully and placed it before Eric, wordless, like a well-trained butler…
Or perhaps like a priest presenting an offering to a temperamental god.
Ugh.
Eric's heart literally skipped a beat.
How many times had he been stunned today?
By now, he should've been used to it — but no.
What he saw in the mirror was light-years away from the image he'd always had of himself.
Holy sh—
Wait… that's me?
A stunning young man stared back at him.
Tanned skin, hair a blend of dark and golden tones, sharply defined features — almost too perfect. Like a character straight out of a beautifully illustrated fantasy novel.
Eric froze. The silence pressed down on him like stone.
Is my subconscious taking this performance a bit too far?
"…Chris," he asked, eyes locked on his reflection, "how… old am I?"
"You turned twenty last month, young master," Chris replied, ever serene.
Twenty…?
Not only was his asthma gone… he had somehow grown younger.
Now, he stood at the very peak of youth — healthy, vibrant, whole.
He slowly placed a hand against his chest, as if to confirm that his heart was really beating.
Of course, this is all just a dream… but the sensations — they're so vivid, so real…
I wish I'd never wake up from this coma.
His eyes began to glisten. A lump formed in his throat.
Chris, casting a subtle glance his way, seemed to wonder what was going through the boy's mind.
What's gotten into him now...?
"Chris… You said Marcus wanted to speak with me, right?"
"Yes. He requested a meeting upon your awakening."
Eric nodded slowly, eyes locked on the mirror's reflection.
"You told me he banished me from the main estate… sent me off to some backwater annex. So why would he want to see me now?"
An internal sigh.
This backstory is a tangled mess.
How Eric hasn't been executed yet for all his reckless acts is beyond me.
But Marcus… he's the real puzzle here.
Why does he keep putting up with Eric's nonsense? Even after that infamous stunt—showing up at the swordsmen's annual banquet looking like a street rat, just to spite his father?
And Eric's a son born out of wedlock. Marcus has legitimate daughters, talented ones at that.
So why stubbornly cling to him as heir?
Chris gave a slight, almost imperceptible shrug.
"Honestly, young master, I haven't the faintest clue."
Eric shrugged too, wearing a mask of casual indifference.
Not my problem.
"You said earlier that I'd be receiving monthly stipends, right?"
"That's correct," Chris answered cautiously.
"And… how many months would it take to save up enough… to open a bakery?" Eric asked, voice deceptively casual.
For the second time that day, Chris's unshakable composure faltered—just a flicker, but unmistakable. His gaze trembled slightly.
"Young master… I must remind you that bread is—"
"Answer me."
The temperature in the room dropped sharply.
Eric hadn't raised his voice.
Yet the icy edge in his tone sliced through the air like a blade.
Chris felt a cold shiver run down his spine.
The revelation of a virgin market, an untouched territory to conquer, a whole world waiting to be converted in the name of bread… had sparked a wildfire within Eric.
But the butler's dismissive words?
They would not be forgotten.
Not this time.
And then—
everything snapped.
Chris felt the ground lurch beneath his feet.
The air thickened.
A chilling wave — sharp, almost unnatural — wrapped around him.
Ugh!
He gasped.
Huh...? Just now… wasn't I dead?
Panicked, Chris clutched at his head, then his neck, as if checking that he still existed.
His eyes widened in disbelief.
What… what just happened?
"Hey, Chris."
Eric's voice — soft, yet laced with something terrifying — yanked him back to reality.
"That initial stipend you mentioned…
Is it enough to open a bakery?"
Chris, still visibly shaken, struggled to gather himself.
"…It would be enough… to open three, if you so wished."
Eric's lips curled into a radiant smile — nearly divine.
"Perfect."
He sprang to his feet, eyes blazing with the fire of a man touched by destiny.
"Let's go see good old Marcus."
He turned toward the door, fist clenched, head held high.
"I've got loaves to bake. Hahaha!"