Idiotic Noble

A man in his 30s walked into the dining room.

His skin was pale, almost sickly under the morning light, contrasting sharply with his dark brown hair. His deep brown eyes held a calculating glint, and his angular nose, paired with his gaunt features, gave him the appearance of a man who was always scheming.

As he entered, his unreadable expression gradually shifted into a smile—one that was so obviously fake it bordered on insulting. He strode toward the dining table with a practiced ease, his posture controlled, his movements deliberate.

Ethan had already stopped eating the moment he heard the approaching footsteps. But he didn't immediately turn to acknowledge the man. Instead, his gaze subtly flicked over the servants standing by.

They looked tense—rigid, almost—but not alarmed.

That told Ethan everything he needed to know.

This wasn't an unknown visitor.

The man came to a stop beside the table and spoke in a smooth, almost pleasant voice.

"Good morning, Master Ethan. I see you're up early today."

Ethan recognized that voice. It belonged to the man who had arranged for Lara's brother to be sent out of town.

His grip on the silver fork tightened ever so slightly.

Placing a hand on the back of a chair, the man continued, his fake enthusiasm unwavering.

"May I take a seat?"

At that, Ethan finally turned his head slightly, glancing at him from the side. His crimson eyes, cold and unreadable, met the man's unwavering smile.

His voice was calm yet pointed.

"Why are you asking for my permission to sit in your chair? After all, this is your mansion, Mayor Redwood."

Salvascon Redwood—the third son of House Redwood, a minor noble family.

Despite the remark, Salvascon's artificial smile didn't waver in the slightest.

"Oh, of course, I must ask. After all, one of the grandsons of Duke Mijuri is sitting at my table."

Ethan's gaze sharpened slightly.

Is he trying to butter me up for some reason?

Salvascon hesitated for a fraction of a second, standing there as if truly waiting for permission.

For a moment, Ethan considered refusing him outright. The idea was tempting. But he pushed that thought aside.

"You can have a seat," Ethan said flatly.

Salvascon nodded, pulled back the chair with a smooth motion, and lowered himself onto the seat with practiced elegance.

But the moment his eyes landed on the meal before him, his forced smile faltered.

The change was subtle—barely a twitch of his lips, a flicker of distaste in his gaze. But Ethan caught it.

So… he doesn't like simple meals, huh?

It wasn't just him. The servants had noticed as well.

The tension in the air thickened.

Salvascon's fingers drummed against the polished wood of the table. Then, his expression twisted into a scowl.

His voice, previously smooth and controlled, now carried an unmistakable edge of irritation.

"Why didn't you prepare the food I specifically told you to make?"

The sudden shift in his tone made several servants flinch.

"I gave you clear instructions! Did you simply decide to ignore me?"

A slow, burning anger built in his eyes. His voice rose, booming across the room.

"Give me a satisfactory answer—unless you don't want to die. And if that's the case, you better prepare to see your families follow you into the grave."

Silence fell.

The servants trembled where they stood, their faces pale with fear. One of them swallowed hard, looking like they wanted to speak but didn't dare to.

Ethan frowned, displeased by the display.

This guy…

He actually threatened to kill them over a meal?

Disgust curled in Ethan's gut.

Before any of the terrified servants could respond, he set down his hand with a deliberate motion and leaned back slightly in his chair.

Then, in a calm yet firm tone, he spoke.

"I'm the one who told them to prepare this meal. So don't scold them."

Salvascon blinked. His angered expression flickered with surprise.

His gaze snapped to Ethan, his eyes narrowing, his brows drawing together in confusion.

"Why?" he asked, his voice edged with disbelief.

Ethan met his gaze with a deadpan expression.

"I wanted something light for breakfast."

Salvascon's frown deepened. His fingers tightened around the armrest of his chair.

"Well, if you wanted something light, you could've eaten just that. Why did you tell them to prepare only this?"

He gestured at the modest meal on the table as if it were something utterly incomprehensible.

Ethan shrugged.

"If I won't eat them, why should they prepare extra food? Wouldn't that just be wasteful?"

Salvascon's lips parted slightly, as if caught off guard by the logic. But then, after a second, his expression twisted again—this time in something between annoyance and confusion.

"So what?" he scoffed. "What if it's wasteful? Why should we nobles care about such petty matters?"

Ethan blinked.

What the hell is this guy on about?

The casual arrogance in his tone was almost absurd.

Salvascon leaned forward slightly, his voice lowering as if explaining something painfully obvious to a clueless child.

"As nobles, we shouldn't be held to the same principles as commoners. It is our birthright to enjoy privileges like this. Shouldn't you, of all people, be aware of that? You're the grandson of a great noble yourself."

His expression carried a self-assured arrogance, as if his words were absolute truth.

Ethan just stared at him.

His mind rifled through the original Ethan's memories, searching for any hint that this kind of attitude was normal.

It wasn't.

Yes, nobles enjoyed wealth and status in this world. But it wasn't as if they viewed commoners as utterly disposable.

Magic existed in this world, and nobles didn't have a monopoly on it.

If anything, nobles needed to maintain a certain level of favor with the people. Power wasn't something you held alone—it was something others allowed you to keep.

Yet here was Salvascon, speaking like some cartoonish villain, openly displaying a mindset that felt… outdated.

Ethan exhaled slowly, resisting the urge to rub his temples.