Chapter 9: London Calling (rewrited)

Barron had an excellent night's sleep. So excellent, in fact, that when he woke up, he briefly forgot he was now the heir to a financially troubled aristocratic family. Then reality hit him like a bucket of cold water.

He groaned, rolled over, and muttered, "Ah, yes, crippling responsibility. My old friend."

Deciding to be a responsible heir, he got up, dressed himself (shocking, really), and stepped out for a morning stroll through the estate.

Now, if there was one thing British aristocrats were good at, it was luxury. Traditionally, they didn't even have to get up to eat breakfast—just press a button, and poof! A servant would appear with food on a tray, ready to be consumed while still in bed.

But alas, times had changed. Barron, despite being an aristocrat, had to endure the excruciating hardship of walking to breakfast. Tragic.

Chatsworth Manor was an absolute masterpiece. Sitting along the riverside with a 150-acre back garden, it was the kind of place that screamed, "Old money lives here!" and also, "We might lose all of this soon!"

Barron wandered through a flower maze and stopped by a waterfall, deep in thought.

The financial situation was… well, let's call it "not ideal."

He had £100,000 to his name, and he needed £35 million to save the Cavendish family's fortune. A small, teeny-tiny gap. No big deal. Just a 350x return on investment.

"Well, I've done harder things before…" he muttered. Then, after thinking about it, he corrected himself. "Actually, no, I haven't."

His memories from his past life provided some knowledge of the financial market, but guessing stock movements was a dangerous game. He needed a plan. A brilliant, foolproof, absolutely genius plan.

That's when a voice interrupted him.

"Master Barron, you are here..."

"Butler Sean, when did you sneak up on me?"

"I've been standing here for a while, but you looked deep in thought," Sean said. "So, I assumed you were either contemplating the family's future... or just stuck in a daydream."

Barron smirked. "A bit of both, probably."

Sean was dressed as always—a perfect tuxedo, flawless posture, the absolute embodiment of British discipline. Barron could bet his entire (tiny) fortune that Sean had never once loosened his bowtie in his life.

"Magnificent, isn't it?" Barron said, glancing at the manor, now glowing under the morning sun.

"Yes," Sean sighed. "Chatsworth has stood for over 400 years. Many great families have collapsed, but the Cavendish name has endured. My grandfather was the steward here. My father was the steward here. And now I am."

He turned to Barron with a rare, intense look. "This manor… this family… is my life. I have given everything to it. And I will not see it fall while I still breathe."

Barron blinked. "Well. No pressure or anything."

Sean's lips twitched, but he quickly regained his composure. Barron, however, could see the bloodshot in the butler's usually sharp eyes. The old man clearly hadn't slept well.

"Look, I will fix this, Butler Sean," Barron said with confidence.

Sean gave a small nod. "I hope so, Master Barron."

Ah yes, the classic British response: a polite way of saying "I have deep doubts but will pretend to believe in you."

Now, while money problems were a serious issue, Barron had discovered another critical concern.

British cuisine.

If one could even call it that.

It wasn't that Barron hated English food—it was just that he came from China, the land of actual flavors. Going from dim sum, Sichuan hotpot, and crispy duck to… boiled everything was a nightmare.

At one point, Barron had seriously considered cooking Chinese food himself, an act that would likely make his ancestors roll in their graves. A noble? Cooking?! Preposterous!

Still, something had to be done. If he survived this financial crisis, a Chinese chef was going to be the first thing he hired.

But for now… he would have to endure.

After finishing a barely edible breakfast, Barron prepared for his trip to London.

As he stepped outside, his driver Ramos was already waiting by the Rolls-Royce.

"Butler Sean, I leave the manor in your capable hands. I'll be back as soon as possible."

Sean, however, looked deeply concerned.

"Master, I must insist… Are you sure you don't want to take the train to London instead?"

Barron raised an eyebrow. "What's wrong with the car?"

Sean cleared his throat. "It's just that... given the previous car accident involving the late Duke and your brother, I fear—"

"Sean," Barron interrupted. "Are you saying I have bad car luck?"

Sean did not answer. But his face said "Yes, absolutely."

"Relax," Barron said, clapping the butler on the shoulder. "Ramos is an excellent driver. If anything happens, I promise to haunt you in the most polite, aristocratic way possible."

Sean pinched the bridge of his nose. "Master Barron, that is not funny."

"It's a little funny."

Still frowning, Sean sighed. "Fine. But if anything happens—"

"It won't," Barron said, waving. "We're off!"

As the Rolls-Royce drove off, Barron leaned back in his seat and smirked.

It was May 30th. He had £100,000 and a plan.

And tomorrow?

Tomorrow was May 31st… The day the World Cup started.

Time to make some money.