Chapter 59: The Adorably Annoying “Cutesy Taobao Tone”

“Marlon Lister ! You truly are a lowborn, gutter-bred little imp who knows nothing of rank or respect! You’ll never be fit to stand among the nobility! Take back those vile words of yours and apologize to my father, right this instant!”

Before the elder priest Copperbeard could even open his mouth, a sharp, arrogant voice—laced with fury and the unmistakable tone of superiority—rang out from behind him.

The sound made Marlon pause. There was something oddly familiar about it, something that stirred a faint, unpleasant memory.

Following the voice, Marlon looked up—and there he was. A face he recognized, though not fondly. Descartes Neulen von Stein, Ivna’s pompous, small-minded fiancé—the same man Marlon had once dismissed as a pretentious fool.

“Oh. Good day, Mr. Descartes,” Marlon greeted casually.

Out of respect for Ivna’s face, he ignored the insult buried in Descartes ’s commanding tone, offering only a polite nod in response.

“Idiot! Did you not hear me?” Descartes  snapped, his voice rising an octave. “Take back those disgusting words and apologize to my father! Immediately!”

The young man’s arrogance was insufferable. To him, Marlon’s courtesy was not grace, but weakness. Emboldened, he sneered, “You’re nothing but a filthy writer—some nobody my fiancée decided to patronize. Two months ago, who had even heard your name? Do you believe I can’t have Ivna cancel her contract with you this instant? You’d go crawling back to the slums like the pitiful little imp you are!”

Descartes spat the words as though they were daggers, each one dripping with spite. His father, Benjamin von Stein, hadn’t even managed to intervene—though, to be fair, Benjamin was still dazed from Marlon’s earlier remarks on “respecting the elderly.”

And so, without question, Descartes had just jabbed his hand straight into a hornet’s nest.

If, moments ago, Marlon had been willing to dismiss the man’s words as the barking of a fool—now, that patience was gone. His eyes darkened, his lips curving into a cold, dangerous smile.

So that’s how it is, he thought grimly. I gave him face, and he threw it away. Very well. If you’re so eager to lose it, I’ll gladly grind that pride of yours into the dirt.

“Indeed,” Marlon said at last, his tone deceptively calm. “I’m just a lowly writer. So then, Mr. Descartes Neulen von Stein, why don’t you go to Miss Ivna right now? Ask her to cancel our contract. Surely that would make you feel better, wouldn’t it?”

The shift in Marlon’s expression was unmistakable—sunlight turning to storm. A mocking gleam flashed in his eyes as he leaned forward slightly and, adopting a tone of exaggerated sweetness, added, “Come now, dear… whoever doesn’t go is the son of a—well, you know.”

The crowd gasped.

Descartes froze, his face pale with disbelief. Never in his life had anyone dared speak to him like that—least of all Marlon, who only moments ago had seemed so polite.

And just like before, Marlon’s words were amplified by the magic sound crystal, echoing clearly across the entire square.

For a heartbeat, there was silence. Then—laughter erupted.

Perhaps it was because no one had ever heard such playful vulgarity used in an argument before, or perhaps it was the sheer absurdity of seeing the proud Von Stein heir humiliated so publicly—but the crowd couldn’t hold back. Peals of laughter rolled through the square like waves, each louder than the last.

Some bolder onlookers—especially those who had long disliked the Von Stein family—laughed so hard they were clutching their sides, deliberately mocking both Descartes, now standing like a statue, and his father, who had already suffered his own humiliation earlier.

One voice rose above the laughter—it was Isolde Arvey, the deputy chief of the city guard, who had recently been scolded by Benjamin von Stein himself.

“Archmage Von Stein!” Isolde called out theatrically, feigning shock. “It seems your family’s manners are… lacking. Why, only this morning, the Mayor’s ninety-seventh decree of the year was announced—clearly forbidding anyone from using the term ‘slum imp’ to insult the war orphans. And yet your son has just used it publicly—against a talented young author, no less! Don’t you feel… ashamed?”

A murmur swept through the crowd.

Benjamin’s face turned crimson. Before he could answer, Descartes —who had been trembling with rage—suddenly went stark white. His body convulsed as though struck by lightning, and with a strangled gasp, he rolled his eyes upward and collapsed backward with a loud thud.

He had fainted.

You’ve got to be kidding me.

Isolde blinked in disbelief. “Was his heart always this weak?” he muttered. He’d heard rumors that the young Von Stein heir was frail, but this was beyond ridiculous.

Benjamin panicked. He dropped to one knee beside his fallen son, pressing a hand under Descartes’s nose. After confirming that the boy was still breathing, he looked up frantically.

“Priests!” he shouted. “Any sect will do! Please, help my poor child!”

Immediately, the influence of the Von Stein family made itself known. Despite the laughter moments earlier, three priests from different orders hurried forward, pushing through the crowd to assist.

With the combined power of their healing spells, Descartes eventually stirred. His eyelids fluttered open, eyes unfocused and glassy.

He blinked several times, confusion clouding his expression—then realization struck. He understood where he was, what had happened, and how utterly he had embarrassed himself.

A strangled noise escaped his throat. Then, with a comical hiccup, his eyes rolled back—and he fainted again.

The priests exchanged looks. One of them knelt, prying open Descartes’ eyelids to check his pupils. After a moment, he sighed and spread his hands helplessly.

“I’m afraid there’s nothing more we can do, Lord Von Stein,” he said gently. “The first fainting was from external shock. We could rouse him then. But this…” He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “…This appears to be a self-induced fainting spell. It would be best to send the young lord back to Red Maple Manor to rest.”

Benjamin’s jaw tightened. He wanted to summon servants to carry his son away, but when he looked up, he met the gaze of Elder Priest Lisp Copperbeard, who was watching him with calm, unreadable eyes.

The message was clear—try to flee this disgrace, and I will intervene.

Benjamin swallowed hard. His hands trembled as he turned back to the elder.

“E–Elder Copperbeard,” he stammered, his composure in ruins. “I… I admit my fault. I have been careless in speech and action, offending the great God of Contracts and Machinery. I am willing to atone according to Mr. Marlon Lister ’s judgment—by cleaning this plaza for one week, as penance for my irreverence.”

There was no doubt about it. Benjamin von Stein had surrendered completely. In this battle of wit and will, concerning the invention of the “Virtual Glory Duel,” he had been utterly, humiliatingly defeated.

“And furthermore,” Benjamin continued, bowing his head deeply, “my foolish, ill-mannered son has spoken unforgivably. Once he has recovered, I will see to it that he personally visits Mr. Marlon Lister , bearing gifts, to offer a formal apology.”

His tone was almost pleading now.

Benjamin von Stein had finally realized the truth: the boy standing before him—soft-spoken, scholarly, almost delicate—was not someone to be provoked.

He was dangerous.

Best to retreat, to wait, to repay this debt another day.

And so, hiding the venom of his resentment beneath a mask of humble contrition, Benjamin von Stein bowed his head low and forced a trembling smile.

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