Episode 22 Morg Camus (3)

“I guess the Morg don’t teach you not to envy what belongs to others?”

Vikir’s words as he entered the chamber changed the mood once again.

Adolf’s expression, which had been subtly amused, hardened.

Camus also glares at Vikir with an angry expression.

Hugo, on the other hand, wore the same subtle expression that Adolf had been wearing all this time.



A showdown between two self-respecting geniuses.

The once-in-a-hundred-years supernovae of the two sides stare at each other in the center of the room.

Vikir studied Morg Camus in front of him.

Red hair, sparkling ruby eyes, a sharp nose, chubby cheeks, a few freckles, and an innocent expression.

“Is this the Morg Camus I know?

Her childhood face and her adult face overlap.

If you take away the baby chub from that face, take away the haggardness, and add a few more years to it, you’ll see a face …… that Vikir knows.

The Ironblood Empress of House Morg.

She was known as the undisputed genius of Morg, a magical family that has produced many of the greatest mages in history.

In addition to her magical prowess, she also possessed a stunning beauty that captivated the hearts of every man in her social circle, and she was skilled at using her beauty to her advantage.

With a figure that could go in one place and come out another, Camus could wrap even the highest ranking royalty in a skirt, making her the embodiment of power.

He did not hesitate to marry for convenience several times, and each time the prestige of the House of Morg greatly increased.

In her prime, when she ruled as the Lord Chancellor, she slaughtered countless demons and barbarians in the Red and Black Mountains, skewering them and burning them with fire to establish a border of blood and ashes.

In her later years, she was referred to by the enormous title of “Heavenly Empress”.

“Dude, what did you just say?”

…… But that’s in the distant future. For now, he’s just an eight-year-old kid.

The Camus asked Vikir in an angry voice.

“Why is the ruby mine yours! It’s ours!”

Adolf laughed and Hugo frowned at the sight.

But Vikir dismissed Camus’s protests with a single word.

“You must have traveled a long way to smoke this.”

Hugo laughed and Adolf frowned at the sight.


The Camus gritted his teeth, realizing that his weapon of choice was a child.

So he changed his demeanor and reverted to his logical self.


A chill ran through the girl’s body.

Dropping her innocent expression, she spoke in a cold voice.

“Since you seem to dislike talking, let me logically explain why this ruby mine belongs to Morg.”

Camus took out a map and analyzed the mine’s topography.

“The only surface mines that can produce rubies are within our family, which means that the Baskervilles can’t mine them on their own anyway, and it makes good business sense for the Baskervilles to give us the mining rights to the ruby ore beneath the estate in exchange for a percentage of the estate’s rent.”

She is the only child of a prominent mage family who has never been overcome by logic before.

Her logic would make even grown men flinch, much less people her own age.

But Camus’s pride was soon challenged.

“The mineral ruby is commonly used in magic. There is no reason for Baskerville to mine them, and it would be a great tragedy for House Morg to have a fool in our midst who would open up our lands for rent.”

Camus stared blankly at Vikir’s argument.

For the first time in his life, he had met someone whose logic didn’t make sense to him, and it was someone his own age!

Weren’t most men his age dull and stupid? Camus couldn’t help but feel a little confused.

…… Meanwhile.

Camus’s and Vikir’s arguments were not those of mere eight-year-olds.

Both had a firm grasp on the logic of the Morgs and Baskervilles, and Adolf and Hugo could not help but watch with interest.

Camus narrowed his eyes.

“Well, that’s curious. I’ve never met anyone like you before. I don’t know anyone my age who can talk to me.”

“I go outside a lot.”

“…… Excuse me. I’ve been outside a lot already, if you mean inspecting the estate. What makes you think you know anything about my life?”

“Actually, I have no interest in your life, the problem is Ruby. If you want to change the subject, do it alone.”

Vikir’s stoic demeanor is replaced by a glint in Camus’s eye.

“You’re the first guy I’ve ever met who’s been this indifferent to me!” is the classic, clichéd, yet timeless sentiment.

I just did that.

She’s a direct descendant of House Morg, and she’s been the recipient of countless favors.

Where else would she go to receive such a blatant pat on the back from someone her own age?

Moreover, this is a stage he cannot afford to lose, an argument he cannot afford to lose.

My pride has never been diminished.

Camus asked pointedly.

“The mine is in Morg territory, so the mining rights belong to Morg!”

“The vein runs beneath Baskerville’s territory, so the mining rights belong to Baskerville.”

“I thought Baskerville was not interested in rubies!”

“That’s right, they only care about their territory, which is why they don’t want you to come in. Is that hard to understand?”

Morg is interested in the ruby, and Baskerville is interested in the territory. There’s no way they can agree on anything.

The adults standing behind the children didn’t see eye to eye with them, so the dispute was far from resolved.


Camus’s ruby eyes sparkled.

“Very well, I’ll make sure you know where the ruby ore belongs!”

The Camus picked up a brush and ink from his desk.

He began to draw on the floor.

A large circle centered on Vikir, and a larger circle centered on Camus.

The two circles touched each other.

Then, Camus made a big wall of paper to separate the two circles.

(The wall of paper was so large that two servants had to hold it up on each side.)

Then Camus on the other side of the paper wall said.

“This is your land, and this is my land.”


Vikir made no reply.

Only Hugo and Adolf watched with interest as the two eight-year-olds argued.



The wall of paper was torn apart.

Camus tore through the paper wall and stuck his arm through.

A white, chubby arm broke through the paper wall and entered Vikir’s land.

The camel asked Vikir.

“Now, whose arm is this?”

Adolf’s face lit up when he heard the answer.

Hugo’s face crumpled.

The camel’s analogy was clear.

Even though his arm had crossed the boundary, he still owned it, and so did the ruby vein.

It was the wisdom of his ancestors, who, long ago, when the persimmons on their persimmon tree grew over their neighbor’s fence, went to claim them.


“……hmm. Who does this arm belong to?”

Vikir is not a very likable character.


A strong grip that doesn’t look like it belongs to an eight-year-old grabs a white, chubby forearm.

Before Camus can squeal, Vikir is the first to speak.

“He’s mine now.”

Instantly, an immense sense of power radiates from Vikir.

It wasn’t the kind of power that comes from drawing on mana, but the kind of power that comes from existence itself.

It was an overwhelming force that only seasoned hunters from the Age of Destruction could exude.

It was enough to make even Adolf and Hugo cringe for a moment.

Not to mention Camus, who was only eight years old.


Camus tried to swat his hand away, but to no avail.


The wall of paper ripped open, and Vikir yanked on Camus’s arm.

The distance between them was now close enough for their noses to touch.


For a moment, Camus’s gaze wavered.

It’s the first time he’s ever seen another child this close. Not of the same gender, but of the opposite one.

On the other side of the wall, the face of the first boy outside of his clan was incredibly familiar and yet strange at the same time.

Dark hair, dark eyes, white skin.

And a body odor unlike any he’d ever smelled before, and a breath that was almost too quiet to be heard.

For a moment, Camus felt a jolt that seemed to knock the wind out of him.

It was a very foreign experience for the eight-year-old, who hadn’t had much experience wandering outside of the clan.

“He looks cute.”

Camus thought, momentarily forgetting the gravity of the situation.

Is that why?

He made the mistake of blushing and backing away from an important meeting.

“My, why am I yours, woo, you’re hilarious!”

It’s hard to tell if the attack landed because he’s looking down at the floor.

Adolf and Hugo watched the scene with subtle expressions.


“Hum, hum.”

Important diplomatic matters mixed with the tender sensibilities of eight-year-olds made for a very awkward atmosphere that was neither theirs nor mine.

…… Just then.

Vikir’s words broke the ice.

“Who says you’re mine?”

At the same time, Vikir’s grip tightened.

Camus was pulled firmly back towards Vikir.

Before she could scream in surprise, Vikir’s other hand moved.

“Your arm is mine.”

As he spoke, Vikir plucked something from his waistband like lightning.

It was a sharpened dagger.

It was a shocking sight that made Camus, Adolf, and even the usually poker-faced Hugo hiccup.