Guidelines for the Perfect Goodbye - Chapter 103
The carriage was entirely golden. Apart from the parts that should have rolled lightly, everything was gilded. Rubies were densely embedded along the edges, and the sun was carved out of opal on the front of the carriage.
As the wheels rolled, the surface flashed painfully bright. The appearance was so extravagant it was garish.
The carriage shone so brightly that passersby shaded their eyes and squinted. Red, yellow, and sometimes brilliantly multicolored.
The commoners opened their mouths in awe, calling it a spectacle, while the noblewomen enjoying their post-meal walks covered their mouths and murmured about its tackiness.
It was distinctly nouveau riche, but it clearly displayed the pride of a life achieved alone.
Despite its opulence, there were no patterns. Since there was no history or nor a proper emblem—they just stuck a sun on it.
Inside the carriage, it was dark. The man stretching his legs inside the opulent sun had drawn the curtains long, blocking all light.
His eyelids drooped in the darkness, heavily laden with fatigue.
He felt no excitement about meeting his betrothed for the first time. He just wanted to rest.
He had spent half of the year at sea and had barely set foot on his mother’s soil when he was now being carted away in his maternal grandfather’s carriage.
What is the difference between this and drifting?
The man mused to himself.
His arms crossed, his muscular biceps not even feeling cramped, he slumped forward as the carriage rattled along.
It was precisely the fifteenth day since he had set foot on land.
“This damn engagement.”
That damn Countdom.
He was tired. It was an annoying and burdensome meeting.
Honestly, he didn’t understand why he had to meet her.
Engagement. Woman. Marriage. Family. It all meant nothing to him.
He had no memory of ever desiring any of it, let alone a marriage of convenience.
He twisted his lips into a wry smile. That old man was cunning, collecting the debts of his upbringing in his own way.
His maternal grandfather, controlling a third of the trade associations in the western inland region, seemed still famished despite his wealth. Well, that’s how you become a tycoon. Succeeding without desire is like declaring oneself a saint.
It was just as absurd.
Yet this man. The nouveau riche grandson. The illegitimate son of a duke. This precious yet humble man was precisely the saint who had devoted his life to that absurd talent.
The man was a navy officer, and if it were up to his merits, it wouldn’t have been strange for his uniform to be plastered with medals.
In the end, though, he was neither a colonel nor a general, but a mere lieutenant.
The problem was his origin.
Too lowly? No.
Ambiguously noble.
Would the country shout for joy about a national hero that’s a bastard? Naturally, his origin becomes a matter of interest.
The crowd found the illegitimate son of a duke more intriguing than the grandson of a nouveau riche man.
Therefore, for the prestige and face of their ducal family, he must not remain a national hero.
Fortunately or unfortunately, he had little interest in honor. Regrettably, he also showed little interest in counting money.
‘You’re going to hurt yourself. If you’re planning to ruin my trade, just disappear to the mainland.’
An old man with a face as gnarled as the base of an ancient tree laid down the law. That day, the man volunteered for the marines at the bottom of the ground forces.
‘Madman. Absolute madman.’
The send-off from Mr. Harper, the head of the trade association, was short and intense.
The silent madman’s impulsive patriotism fit like catching a rat by kicking it backwards.
The sea was exhausting, but naval battles were entertaining enough.
On the ship, while the impulse to go wild typically leads sailors to squander their fortunes on women, this man had driven all his vigorous energy beneath the sword handle.
But then, a woman.
Moreover, an engagement. An engagement of mismatched social classes.
What does rank matter? What do nobles matter?
In death, everyone becomes a mere corpse.
The man who had hauled several comrades’ bodies just a fortnight ago chuckled as he clicked his tongue.
The portrait of the woman, which his grandfather had desperately begged him to look at just once, dangled from his right fingertip.
He glanced at it briefly.
In a place devoid of sunlight, even the brushstrokes were faint. Yet, he had no intention of unfolding his arms or even lifting the curtain.
He shook the portrait of the woman pitifully caught between his index and middle fingers and then let go of it.
Thud.
Even the sound of it falling was indifferent.
He chuckled and clicked his tongue.
“B******t.”
