21 The Rusty Machine
In the silent heart of the castle, the sound of a sigh echoed in the absent lord's office. A sigh... then another... and another. As if each sigh exhaled was a futile attempt to expel one's own frustration. After so many, the agitation began to bubble like water began to boil.
Felicia sat at the large carved oak desk, her eyes blazing with fury at the wall of papers that were piled up in front of her. The documents rose like an obelisk of bureaucratic pain, two feet high from administrative purgatory. To her, this was not paper—it was the enemy. A silent, impenetrable monster, written in a language she had mastered but which now seemed to be made of riddles.
She tried to read a report. She tried. The words danced before her eyes like mocking specters, each sentence a blow to her dignity. He patiently tried to explain. But the more he talked, the more everything seemed to resemble a series of numbers and clauses. For Felicia , dealing with administration was like putting a champion fighter through an arcane algebra test.
Yes, she was strong. A feared warrior, a presence that made even the boldest retreat. The knowledge she carried was vast—the art of war, mastery of the elements, basic geopolitics, siege tactics. But none of it was of any use here. In this place. In front of that paperwork. On that throne of files and decrees, she was just a humiliated novice.
It had been a week since Fernando had left. Seven days in which she had done everything she could to get John's medal—and failed. The boy was as firm as an ancient mountain. Neither emotional blackmail, nor sweetness, nor varnished promises had had any effect. And now, in addition to not having the medal, she had a pile of obligations on her desk and an identity crisis in her chest.
In her mind, it was simple: with John's medal, she would control two-thirds of the power. She would raise taxes—just a little, of course—and divert some of the revenue to herself. In time, she would raise enough funds to finance at least half of an evolution ritual. An elegant, logical plan… but completely unworkable.
João didn't give in. And the work... the work was hell. She realized that all she had to do was distribute papers and take charge. But no. The reports were dense, the graphs planned, the works of art chaotic, and even the spreadsheets planned laughed at her. With each budget line, her head throbbed. With each poorly resolved bill, the certainty of defeat grew.
Felicia, an indomitable warrior, threw in the towel. Almost literally. She slumped in her chair, arms crossed, staring at the ceiling as if it held the answers the papers didn't.
There was an unspoken agreement between the medal holders: whoever best managed the Venhorst territory , demonstrating leadership and competence, would gain symbolic possession of a second medal. And with two... they became acting lord or lady of the territory. For now, Felicia was far from that.
But the game wasn't over yet.
Catarina was the first. She entered the office as if she were going into battle, confident, elegant, convinced... and she lasted exactly twenty-four hours. At the end of the day, she threw a white towel on the floor as if she were in a ring. Unconditional surrender.
Felicia 's turn .
Five days. Five long, tortuous days of trying to decipher a tangle of local laws, budgets, reports and tax obligations. On the sixth day, defeated by paperwork that seemed enchanted with a spell of confusion, she also threw in the towel — dramatically, in the middle of the office, as if closing an era.
With heavy eyes and a somber expression, Felicia looked at Ceto, who remained motionless in the corner of the room, like a statue faithful to its function.
— Okay, I... give up .
The words came out low, slurred. Her head dropped slightly, her shoulders hunched in a silent gesture of frustration. Her hair was tangled, her eyes were ringed with dark circles, her expression more that of a warrior in mourning than a noblewoman in defeat.
But then something flashed in her eyes. A smile formed. There was a new hope—a gamble, really. She wanted to see how long John, her stubborn, unyielding nephew, could last inside that damned office. Maybe a day? A few hours? She would bet no more than one day of sunlight.
— Now it's John's turn. Let's see how long he lasts... — he muttered mischievously.
Then he turned back to the old butler.
— Okay , I'll leave it at that. Now it's up to you... go work with the little one.
Ceto simply nodded. Internally, the relief he felt was comparable to seeing the end of a war. In the last few days, he had nearly lost his mind trying to explain technical terms to two extraordinary women—and completely incompetent in territorial management.
— As you wish, milady. That was all he said.
Felicia left, bearing her defeat with some dignity and much fatigue. In the great hall, she announced her surrender to the other two bearers. The game began again.
The next day...
As the sun rose through the castle's stained glass windows, John stood before the mirror, adjusting his collar with a calm, almost ceremonial air. He and Catherine had made no progress in their magical studies that week. He had been busy trying, by all means, to persuade his mother to give him his medal.
But now he understood. It wasn't that Catherine didn't want to give him the medal—it was that, for some reason he didn't yet understand, she simply couldn't .
Then John stopped. He wouldn't insist any further. Putting her against the wall wasn't an option.
He had only one alternative left: Felicia .
The greedy aunt. The fearless warrior. The woman who had tried to get his medal... without success. And now, somehow, he had to get hers .
John considered the possibilities. Felicia was not an easy person. She would not bow to sentimentality, and she certainly would not heed pleas. Bribery? He had no coins, no gold, no mana stones in abundance. She would only listen to him under two conditions: if he was stronger than she was—or if he was made of pure gold or elemental crystals.
Unfortunately... he was neither.
But there was another way. An indirect path, a veiled possibility. For Felicia , money was the primary language. But for John, strategy was the true language of power.
And he was already beginning to draw up his plan.
Venhorst Castle Gardens – The Beginning of the Competition
John had an idea.
It was a plan that sounded simple at first glance, but that hid layers of strategy behind every word. A proposal that put all participants on an equal footing — at least in theory.
— Whoever manages the territory best... will get an additional medal.
Simple. Direct. Brilliant.
Felicia accepted immediately. So did Catarina. Neither of them believed John was a real threat. Especially Felicia , who had never considered him a legitimate competitor. To her, John was just a stubborn boy with a stubborn look and childish ideas—brilliant, perhaps, but still a child. And children, in the game of management, were like fish thrown into the desert.
On that sunny morning, John and Catherine were in the castle garden. Sitting under the cool shade of the mulberry trees, magic books spread out on a stone table, both immersed in their studies. The air was filled with birdsong, and the gentle breeze carried the scent of wildflowers newly awakened in spring.
It was then that she appeared.
Felicia .
Striking as ever—clad in tight red leather, her long black hair rippling in the wind, an aura of fire dancing about her. Even with the bags under her eyes, her face was as striking as an ancient painting. The smile on her lips was bold, almost mocking.
— Sister-in-law, nephew... still studying? On such a beautiful day like this?
Catarina looked up, surprised by the visitor. A flicker of respect crossed her face—brief, but noticeable . She closed the magic book gently, nodding.
— Did you finally give up?
Felicia laughed, that laugh that mixed pride and frustration.
— At least I lasted longer than you, sister-in-law.
The tone was triumphant, as if surviving more days among charts, rates, and decrees was a feat comparable to winning a war. John, standing to the side, watched the scene in silence. Inwardly, he laughed. His aunt's vanity was a useful piece on his mental chessboard.
The two women exchanged a few more words—nothing hostile, but gentle barbs hidden beneath polite smiles. Until both their eyes turned to John.
Felicia watched him like a hunter eyes audacious prey.
— John, now it's your turn. I'm curious to see how long you'll last. I hope that... well , that you'll surpass your mother — she said, savoring every word.
John didn't blink.
He simply nodded, with a calmness that belied his age.
— Mom , can I go now?
Catarina stared at him for a moment, before answering:
— You can go. We're done for today.
Felicia frowned. John's calmness was disconcerting. She had expected hesitation, anxiety… or at least some visible tension. But there was only that calm, steady gaze. It made her slightly uncomfortable.
But no, she thought. It was just a pose. A childish act. As soon as he came across the first tax spreadsheet or tax map... despair would set in.
"Go ahead then," he said, crossing his arms.
John stood up slowly, straightened his tunic, and with silent steps began to walk toward the castle. His silhouette receded under the golden morning sun, like that of someone entering a silent battlefield.
Felicia turned to follow him—when Catarina's voice echoed behind her.
— Wait.
— Sister-in-law... better not follow him. You might end up being surprised.
Catarina's voice sounded calm, but there was something behind it—a subtle mix of teasing, warning, mystery , and ... anticipation .
Felicia smiled, not taking it seriously. To be surprised? At thirty-something, after everything she had seen, heard and experienced? She would be naive to expect something new from a boy who had barely reached puberty.
Catarina said nothing more. She sat down again under the shade of the tree, her eyes following the small figure of her son as he moved away. Her mind, however, was elsewhere. Fernando's words echoed in her head, like a persistent whisper that she could not ignore.
John arrived at the office with silent, determined steps.
The first thing he did was ask a maid to call Iza.
She was his designated secretary—and his favorite companion. A young wolf with a gentle expression, eyes the purest shade of blue and an even purer heart. John enjoyed having her around. She made the atmosphere lighter, more human.
The door creaked softly as it opened.
Iza walked in, and her face immediately lit up when she saw John smile at her. She wore a simple blue dress with white trim, and long stockings that covered part of her legs. Even though her clothes were modest, there was something about her—maybe her posture or the innocent sparkle in her eyes—that made her charming in her own way.
Felicia a brief, respectful bow before approaching John.
He squatted down slightly and stroked her hair gently, as if he was caring for a rare crystal.
— Iza, how are you? Your mother... and your aunt?
"We're fine," she replied with a sparkle in her eyes. "Mom too. Her illness… has been calmer lately. The potions are helping a lot. Now she can walk, even if only for a short time. Aunt and I take care of her every day."
For a second, her smile wavered. Brief. Just an instant—but John saw it. Saw the pain hidden behind the hope. He didn't comment, just nodded slowly, keeping the emotion to himself.
That's when Felicia cleared her throat theatrically.
John rolled his eyes.
— Iza, today we are going to spend the day at the office. I really need your help.
The answer sparked a childlike joy in the girl. Working with John was a privilege. Although she was a mere servant assigned to assist him, it placed her in a superior position among the employees—and even though little had been required of her up until then, she carried that role with pride.
— Yes, young master! — he replied , almost skipping.
Felicia cleared her throat again. This time with an accusatory look, as if she were looking at two young people about to exchange wedding vows instead of walking into an office. She was losing her patience. Not with John himself—but with the whole show.
She wasn't here to see pleasantries exchanged. She wanted to see failure. She wanted to see the boy break. She wanted to see John's calm dissolve into despair in the face of piles of reports, budget decisions, and territorial maps.
Because, for Felicia , that calm was just a mask.
And masks, she knew well... always fell off.
John was the first to cross the threshold of the office. Felicia followed him with suspicious steps, and Iza was right behind, attentive and excited.
Inside, Ceto was already waiting for them. He was standing next to the bookshelf closest to the window, his arms crossed and his eyes alert. When the three entered, he gave a brief bow of his head.
— Young master. Miss Felicia.
John responded with a nod that was too mature for his age. He crossed the room calmly and headed for the most imposing chair in the room—Fernando's. Without ceremony, he climbed up with effort and settled himself, but the seat was too big for him. Iza, noticing, ran to the corner of the room and brought some cushions that she carefully piled on the armchair. Only then did John settle in with dignity.
The scene, to the unprepared eye, would have been comical: a puny child trying to occupy a nobleman's throne. But no one laughed. Not Ceto, not Felicia, not Iza. There was something solemn in that gesture. Something that made the entire room seem larger—or perhaps it was John's small body that suddenly seemed too big for his age.
Fernando's office was vast, a silent temple dedicated to the administration of the territory. There was room for ten, but only six chairs were arranged there. Two next to the secretary's desk, the other four next to the bookshelves—isolated, as if they held the echoes of past trials.
John looked up at Ceto.
— In just one word... how would you describe the current state of the territory?
The question dropped like a stone into a calm lake.
Ceto, without thinking, responded almost reflexively.
— Decadent.
John nodded, as if the word was already written in his mind. He picked up the first document from the stack in front of him. And read it.
The silence that settled there was so dense that the sound of a feather falling would be like thunder. Felicia crossed her arms and leaned back in a chair in the corner. Ceto, curious, sat in front of John, waiting for some reaction, some question, some order. But nothing came.
An hour passed. The boy read the same document three times before moving on to the next.
Another time. Another document. The same process. Page by page, line by line, like someone deciphering an ancient code.
By the time the sixth document was returned to the table, six hours had passed. John took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a moment. Then, in a firm voice, he said:
— That's all for today. We'll continue tomorrow.
Felicia and Ceto exchanged glances. Neither of them understood. Who in their right mind would spend an hour on a document? Was this some kind of game? Or pretend? The conclusion seemed obvious: John was just playing at being an adult.
Without arguing, he got down from the chair with Iza's help and left. Felícia watched him until he disappeared into the hallway, with that irritating calm that seemed fake. Ceto, on the other hand, frowned — he saw something different.
After dinner, John, Alex and Iza spent the rest of the day playing in the garden. Running, laughing and childish games. Nothing seemed different from a normal child, if you ignored the fact that this same child had spent six hours immersed in administrative reports.
Felícia watched from afar, leaning on the upper balcony. Beside her, Catarina drank tea with a contemplative look.
—He's still just a boy—Felícia murmured.
Catarina smiled without answering. But her eyes said something else.
The second day repeated the first with meticulous precision .
Theoretical magic classes in the morning — where John absorbed the content like a thirsty sponge. Then, six hours in the office. Document by document. Absolute silence. Iza sat next to him, ready to help, even if he asked her for little.
At the end of the day, the same ritual: family dinner, followed by games in the garden.
But now, Felicia began to notice something. It wasn't an act.
It was method.
October 8th dawned with a clear sky, streaked with clouds so thin they looked like threads of silk. It was John's birthday.
There was no party. There were no presents.
The territory's economy had plunged into a delicate crisis. Grain was scarce, trade routes were at a standstill, and even the castle's coffers were on the verge of exhaustion. So the celebration was postponed—a luxury for another time.
But John didn't complain. Instead, he spent the day with his mother, Alex, and Iza, flying in Catarina's air ark, soaring over flower-filled hills, quiet villages, and forests that danced in the wind. His every wish was granted—and he asked for nothing more than simplicity: an ordinary day with the ones he loved most.
Catarina kept command of the ark with a serene smile, guiding the group over sparkling lakes and golden fields in autumn. Alex hung from the railing with his eyes shining; Iza laughed as if she didn't have a care in the world; and Felicia, despite her efforts to keep her expression neutral, smiled silently.
John lay on a cushioned bench, staring at the sky without saying a word. His eyes, for a moment, seemed older than they should have been.
The next day, everything went back to routine.
The theoretical magic classes were more intense — now, the abstract concepts made sense to John, who absorbed them as if he had read them before, in some ancient dream.
In the office, he surprised even Iza: he read nine documents in six hours. The fluidity with which he looked at the papers was frightening. He was no longer the curious boy he had been when he first read them, but someone who understood the context. Someone who knew what he was looking for.
In the afternoon, Felicia led a practical fencing class. She handed out wooden swords to the three of them: Alex, Iza and John. The training was light, almost recreational, but John still demonstrated a concentration that was disturbing.
Felicia began to look at him with another kind of curiosity.
Five days passed.
The pile of documents disappeared. Read, reread and absorbed. Felícia had given up on attending the reading sessions — it was tedious, repetitive. Ceto still went, but by force. It was his obligation. As for Iza... she always remained by John's side, in silence, delivering tea, sorting the papers, smiling during breaks. For her, that wasn't work. It was being by the side of someone she admired.
On the sixth day, John did something new.
With Iza's help, he organized the documents on the table, aligning them in a clear but invisible structure. At least, invisible to Ceto's eyes.
"This all seems like child's play," the administrator muttered. His tired eyes saw no meaning in piles, lists, or categories. To him, they were just illogically rearranged papers. He no longer had patience for childish games disguised as responsibility.
I was about to say something—something sharp—when John spoke first:
— Okay , we're done for today. We'll continue tomorrow.
It was the same old line. But there was a different weight to it now. Like the game was over—and the next round was for real.
Ceto let out a muffled sigh and left. He went straight to Catarina and vented his frustration. He spoke of the stagnation of decisions, the paralysis of the territory, and the madness of depending on a boy to solve adult things.
Catarina just listened.
The next morning the office was cold. The light coming through the window reflected off the polished floor like a blade.
Before John could even sit down, Ceto took the lead.
— Young man... do you know what you're doing? Or are you just having fun with this old man?
It wasn't an insult. It was a rant. A final plea. There were things to be done. Deadlines. Decisions. Time was running out, and chaos was knocking at the door.
John stared at him. The boy's eyes held neither anger nor arrogance. Just the strange calm of someone who had already expected this demand.
— I know exactly what I'm doing, Ceto. — He sat down. — And you'll see for yourself.
Keto hesitated.
That voice... still childish, but firm as new steel. For the first time, something inside him wavered.
In the last few days, John had studied not only the reports, but the systemic functioning of the territory. He had read about the harvest and taxes, the pending contracts, the demands of the vassal fiefs, the debts owed to the merchants of Maravi , the state of the roads, the health of the soldiers, and even the number of orphans in the border villages.
He didn't just understand.
He mapped it.
And now the seven-year-old boy was ready to do what none of the adults had dared.
Venhorst 's territory was vast, complex and full of contrasts. At the heart of it all stood the city of Novo Redondo , a vibrant urban center that was home to around 40% of the total population . It was from here that the administrative pulse of the territory beat strongest, like the brain of a colossal organism.
Around it, nine smaller cities formed a decentralized ring—districts that functioned as municipalities in relation to the capital. Venhorst , if it were on Earth, would be compared to a large autarchic province, with multiple poles of autonomy under a central core of power.
The Rocky Mountains of Endur to the north were home to the Beastmen , who were disparagingly called barbarians by the urban nobles. To the south, a great river called the Pindus ran through the forest from the mountaintops to the lowlands, serving as the lifeblood of the land. Along its banks lived the WaterClan , a deeply spiritual community, adapted to the flow of tides and fate.
The forest covered almost the entire territory. It was thick, humid , and alive. In the middle of the green, caves hid precious veins of minerals—mining zones that fed the economy. Further south, vast agricultural fields sustained the population with grains, fruits, and livestock.
In the documents John examined, the charts were simple, hand-drawn, but they revealed much. There were production maps, harvest records, tax schedules, and political notes describing the layers of authority.
The political hierarchy was clear:
At the top: the Lord of Venhorst .
Next: the nine noble families that ruled each of the satellite cities.
Then: the Water Clan , with spiritual and territorial power.
Lastly: the Beastmen , marginalized and considered "savages", although they were, in fact, an independent culture.
The ecclesiastical order had a slight difference. After the lord and the families came the merchants , who had a strong influence on the cult and the temples, and only then the Water Clan and the Beastmen.
It took John a while to figure out where he fit into this puzzle. After all, in his past life, he had been an SIA agent , not a regent. Knowing how to manipulate information and overthrow governments was one thing. Governing, building, and sustaining—that was quite another.
But little by little, everything became clear.
Even under a monarchy, Venhorst functioned as an autarchy . Novo Redondo was the legislative and political center, defining general guidelines. But each city had a certain freedom — they could create their own laws, as long as they did not conflict with those of the capital.
This mixed structure — between monarchical authoritarianism and democratic flexibility — made the territory peculiar and, at the same time, dangerously unstable.
The documents were in chaos , piled up like a paper battlefield. John had to reread a lot of them to understand the details. It took patience—something Ceto had already lost. But he persisted. Because, before taking any step, he needed to be certain of three fundamental things:
The current state of the territory : political, economic, social and environmental.
The way Ferdinand and the nobles administered : their flaws, their virtues, and where there was room for action.
The people's reaction to the government : trust, revolt or indifference?
He knew: any decision made in that office would impact thousands of lives. It wasn't a power play. It was a roulette of destiny.
Now, with a preliminary understanding of the territory, John could act .
Action Plan:
Internal Organization — Reform the document system of the Lord's office. Implement a new administrative order.
Field visit — Visit the areas of operation in person:
The nine small towns ;
The Water Clan , on the banks of the Pindo;
The Mountains of Endur , territory of the Beastmen;
Underground mines and agricultural areas .
Public hearing — Verify the people's opinion directly , understand their pain, their hope, their vision of the government.
John closed the last parchment with steady hands. The evening light painted the office in amber hues.
He stood up. He adjusted his collar. He took a deep breath.
— Now... — he muttered to himself — the hard part begins.
And in the corridors of power, shadows began to move.
John looked up slowly from the last of his documents, his fingers drumming on the edge of the oak desk. Opposite him, Ceto stood silently, his expression a mixture of weariness and discomfort.
The young man sighed deeply, but his voice was calm, unshakable.
— Sure , I'll need all records relating to the entry and exit of natural resources from the territory. I want raw numbers, without filters. Include reports on extraction, transportation, storage and consumption.
He paused briefly, looking directly at the old counselor, as if he were expecting something more than simple obedience: perhaps a remnant of responsibility that had been missing.
— I also need a complete list of all relevant administrative positions , with their respective wages and additional income , even those "undeclared".
Ceto's throat moved slightly. A hint of sweat glistened on his left temple, although the air in the room was cool. John didn't stop:
— I want a detailed record of the influential figures in three sectors: production , trade , and resource exploitation . Names, origins, political connections, and especially their sources of income. If there are too many people with too much power and too little responsibility... I need to know.
He rose from his chair with a soft creak of wood. The light filtering through the windows fell upon him like a golden halo. He walked to the map shelf in the corner and ran his fingers over an old diagram of the Pindo River's waterway network.
— Oh, and organize the territory's debts , public and private, and the subsidies in progress . I want the details: to whom they were granted, with what justification, and what return they expected to obtain.
Turning around, he stared at Ceto for a second longer than usual.
— Finally, I want to know how those at the base of the pyramid live . Those who don't appear in the halls or at the banquets. How do they earn a living? Do they eat every day? Do they have a place to sleep?
His voice lowered slightly, becoming more intimate—not soft, but heavy.
— Before giving any order, I need to understand the pain. Not from above, but from below . If the system is rotten at the base, there is no castle that can remain standing.
Ceto finally spoke. His voice was dry, but obedient.
— This will take time... and it will bother a lot of people.
John nodded, with a slight smile that seemed more like a warning than a kindness.
— Great. If no one is bothered, it's because I'm not doing it right.
That night, he stayed alone in the office until late. He reorganized the papers, plotted new routes on the map of the territory and highlighted the points that required the most attention. All by the light of a blue candle, scented with pine resin.
To many, John seemed like just a curious young man playing governor.
But he knew: he was already digging deep. And those who dig deep enough... always find skeletons.