Chapter 4: To Demolish or Not to Demolish?

Are Druids Revolutionaries?

Marlon had spent half the night in deep discussion with Master Druid, the revered Claw God’s druid, about the doctrines of the Druidic faith. By the time he stepped away, his conclusion seemed clear: the answer was… probably no.

This realization brought Marlon a slight sense of relief. Though he was by no means a vested interest party, he leaned toward gradual societal reforms that minimized bloodshed, rather than a sweeping, violent revolution that would leave countless casualties in its wake. A slow, careful path appealed to him far more than sudden upheaval.

Still groggy and half-dreaming, Marlon was rudely pulled from his sleep at the first light of dawn. His personal secretary and tutor, Adela, was the culprit.

Perhaps it was the lingering effects of incomplete nutrition—or maybe the late hour at which he had gone to bed—but Marlon, suffering from his usual low blood pressure, awoke in a sour mood.

“Adela… wait. Let me wake up naturally. I’m trying to live a life where I can sleep in until I’m ready! Ahhh!”

His voice was muffled by sleep, eyes bloodshot and heavy, yet he glared at her with gritted teeth, utterly determined not to surrender to the morning intrusion.

“I’m sorry, but my father… Mr. Andrew Carnegie, is waiting for you downstairs in the parlor. He seems to have something important to discuss with you,” Adela said calmly, unflinching under Marlon’s glare. There was a sincere note of apology in her voice, but she wasted no time on preamble.

According to the Yolanah Contract Marlon had signed with Trist Rem, Adela Rem and Trist Rem, father and daughter, could not acknowledge each other until the orphanage construction was complete and fully operational.

That said, it didn’t mean that Andrew Carnegie—the old wandering warrior now masquerading as a venerable paladin—couldn’t take advantage of a visit to Marlon to also “drop by” and see his daughter, Adela, who bore the blood of the demon race.

Trist Rem had been careful in previous days. He had only visited Marlon once during afternoon tea, stayed briefly, and avoided any private interaction with Adela.

But today was different. He arrived early in the morning, hurriedly, a visit that could not be compared to the casual, polite tea-time chat of a few days prior.

A daughter knows her father best. Though Adela was unaware of the exact difficulties Trist Rem faced that compelled him to seek Marlon’s help, she understood the principle of “matters not suited for the temple of prayers.”

Seeing Marlon still lazily sprawling in bed, showing no inclination to rise on his own, Adela acted without hesitation. She bent over and yanked the blanket from him, leaving Marlon—wearing nothing but a crumpled pair of boxers—mostly exposed to the chilly morning air.

Having spent enough time together, Adela was well-acquainted with Marlon’s easy-going, even-tempered nature, and she had willingly taken on the role of his personal maid.

In this world, the duties of a true noble’s personal maid included one very important task: ensuring that her master cultivated proper sleep habits—especially the habit of not lingering in bed. Being noble was hard work.

“Ah!” Marlon’s protest was instant and instinctual. His blanket stolen, he switched from his usual lazy routine to the desperate defense of modesty, covering himself with one hand while reaching to reclaim the blanket with the other. His teeth ground in frustration as he shouted at Adela:

“Damn it, Adela! Don’t you know that disturbing a man’s sleep is akin to murdering his parents?! You… you—”

He stopped mid-curse, the words choking in his throat, because the morning light revealed a view he had not anticipated. Adela, wearing loose clothing, bent over to tug at the blanket, her form causing certain features—her curves, the soft rise of her chest, the pink peaks above—to become visible from Marlon’s vantage point.

Yes, his body might have been immature, yes, he was still young—but he was undeniably male, and his lower half betrayed him.

Caught between impulse and morality, he teetered dangerously. A man devoted to charitable works was not necessarily a moral saint. The sight of her moving form, wrapped in loose fabric yet still undeniably captivating, was enough to nudge Marlon’s thoughts toward… darker inclinations.

But fate, as always, intervened.

A small noise from next door—a door opening, soft footsteps—brought a disruption to his inner turmoil. Amy, the petite fox-girl, in her pink, adorable pajamas, rubbed her eyes and peered into Marlon’s room, clearly puzzled by the tussle between him and Adela.

Marlon was not yet bold enough to act on his baser urges in front of this innocent, cute little creature.

“Fine! You win, Adela!” he groaned, reclaiming his blanket with all the authority he could muster. “I’ll get up and get dressed. Please, step outside and close the door… thank you.”

Moments later, dressed neatly though still tousled, Marlon descended the stairs.

On his way down, he noticed his young cousin Anvi, gazing up in admiration as he spoke with Trist Rem.

“Good morning, Master Lister.”

Though initially turned away and still speaking to Anvi, Trist Rem’s keen senses, honed by years as a wandering warrior, detected Marlon’s presence. At the second step, he turned to greet him.

“Good morning, Paladin Carnegie.”

Marlon yawned, still sluggish, lacking his usual vitality.

“Paladin Carnegie, coming this early… surely not just for Chef Amy’s breakfast?” he asked, with the faintest note of dry humor.

“Yes, Master Lister,” Trist Rem replied with a nod. “We’ve encountered complications with the relocation project. Twenty-eight ignorant families, misled by a man named Scar-Twison, have refused our compensation plan. They… demand new homes three times the size of their original dwellings, and permanent ownership at that.”

Marlon, still ruffled by the abrupt awakening, nearly leapt in disbelief. “Three times the original size? Permanent ownership? Are you certain?!”

The plot of land allotted by the White Sand City government barely spanned three and a fraction of Loring acres, already considered the most dilapidated area in the slums. There wasn’t a single brick-and-mortar home in the entire district.

And yet, a relocation dispute had erupted. How was Marlon supposed to respond? Congratulate himself for finally getting the chance to play a tyrannical landlord?

“Originally, these twenty-eight households had verbally agreed to the relocation yesterday, raising no objections to our compensation plan. Yet this morning, they collectively changed their minds,” Trist Rem continued calmly.

He added, “Master Lister, following your prior arrangements, the three-hundred-strong construction team has been fully recruited. They lack nothing but strength and enthusiasm. With your approval, one command from me and within the time it takes to eat a single meal, they could completely clear the shacks of these twenty-eight households.”

There was no mistaking it. Trist Rem was waiting for Marlon’s decision.

Boss, give the order—

To Demolish or not to demolish?

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