Lower City District, Jacob Restaurant.

Faintly glowing luminous pearls were scattered like stars, creating a deliberately dim atmosphere. The special smokeless candles flickered softly, resembling sprites slowly twinkling in the dead of night.

At the very center of the restaurant stood a particularly conspicuous small stage. Unfortunately, the lighting there was subdued, and the dim ambiance was accompanied by classical melodies flowing from a phonograph-like magical device tucked into a corner.

Guided by a waiter, Shawn and Moen arrived at their reserved seats. Shawn placed his top hat and coat onto the specially prepared coat rack and glanced toward the restaurant's center, happily remarking:

"Looks like we’re not late yet."

"Late or not, what does it matter?"

Moen replied with a straight face,

"I'm only here to enjoy the craftsmanship of a chef who once worked in the royal palace. As long as there's good food, that's all I care about."

"Haha, naturally."

After asking about Moen's taste preferences, Shawn waved over the waiter and carefully selected the restaurant's most famous signature dishes from the menu. He firmly instructed that the head chef himself must prepare them.

Perhaps sensing the gravity in Shawn's gaze, the waiter solemnly nodded and left. Shawn exhaled with relief, turned back, and asked with a smile,

"Master Campbell, what do you think of this place?"

"Just call me Moen," Moen replied, rubbing his chin as his eyes swept around the restaurant.

"Not bad."

"Not bad..." Shawn let out another breath. "That's a relief. Truth be told, I've never dined with someone of your status before, Moen. I was rather nervous."

"No need to be nervous. Honestly, I'm not all that picky."

Moen swirled the appetizer red wine that the waiter had preemptively poured, took a small, polite sip, and smiled.

"Truly worthy of being the Duke's son," Shawn sighed again at the sight.

"You are fundamentally different from other nobles."

"..."

So, how am I supposed to explain this to you? As a transmigrator, forget about drinking wine of this mediocre quality—in my previous life, when I thought impending doom was inevitable, I was already mentally prepared to become a beggar.

Moen shook his head and shifted the topic.

"Speaking of which, I didn’t expect you to make an advance reservation at a restaurant like this."

"Hmm?"

"No offense... but are you sure your wallet can handle this meal?"

Moen cast a half-smirking glance at the ill-fitting suit Shawn wore.

Though the fabric of the suit was not cheap, it was obviously second-hand, the kind sold at a discount in many tailoring shops. Insolvent nobles often bought such attire to maintain appearances.

As for this restaurant—while not comparable to the top establishments in Upper City—it was still undoubtedly expensive. At the very least, it wasn’t the type of place a down-and-out baron could afford to visit impulsively.

Moreover, being an appointed official wouldn’t instantly make one rich overnight, especially when Shawn had just received his appointment and had yet to assume his duties.

"I didn’t expect... you’d catch on so quickly," Shawn admitted, scratching his head with an awkward smile.

"Moen, you’re absolutely right. This dinner tonight has cost me all of my savings."

"So you’re saying...?"

"But," Shawn interrupted before Moen could finish, speaking seriously.

"Please don’t misunderstand—this isn’t some ploy to curry favor with you. As I’ve mentioned before, I made this reservation long before I ever imagined meeting you."

"Oh? Then why..." Moen raised an intrigued eyebrow.

"The extra seat was for my wife."

"Your wife?" Moen froze, nearly jumping from his chair.

"You mean I’ve taken your wife’s—"

"No, no, no. Please don’t worry, Moen. You didn’t take my wife’s seat," Shawn quickly reassured him.

As he spoke, the middle-aged man with graying temples turned his gaze toward the bouquet of roses on the table—a bouquet distinctly different from the arrangements on others' tables. He stared at it with a mixture of longing and sorrow.

"Because my wife... will never be able to sit here again."

"..."

Moen’s face stiffened.

Wait, what? This is making me incredibly awkward here. What are you trying to say?

You’ve spent your life savings to memorialize your late wife on an important anniversary, and here I am, freeloading a meal?

"Maybe I should just lea—"

"No, no, Moen Master, please. Please, I implore you to stay," Shawn cut in, suddenly becoming agitated.

He abruptly stood, placing his hands on Moen’s shoulders to press him back into his seat, but quickly withdrew them, looking anxious and uneasy.

"You sitting here— it would make her so happy..."

"And why’s that?" Moen was thoroughly bewildered.

It’s supposed to be a solemn day of mourning, yet here you are, dining with a man instead of honoring her alone.

If your wife she knows this, would she truly be happy? Or is she going to haunt me for this?

"Because... because sitting here as the newly appointed administrator of the Lower City District, dining with the son of the Duke I admire... all of this represents the culmination of my decade-long efforts, my hard-fought realization of hope—"

Shawn clenched his fist hard, and his aged face revealed a complex sorrow...and hatred.

"Hope for revenge!"

"Revenge...?" Moen’s eyes widened in astonishment.

Wait, are we pivoting into *that* sort of plotline now?

"That’s right, revenge," Shawn said, turning his gaze toward the small stage at the center of the restaurant. His eyes grew distant as if his thoughts had traveled back to a long-ago past.

He seemed to see once more a mesmerizing silhouette standing there, performing heavenly music, her entire being radiating an irresistible light.

Then, the image shifted: that same figure, pale and bloated from prolonged submersion in water, lying lifeless in his arms, her eyes forever closed.

Finally, he remembered the image of a high-ranking noble, staring down at him with searing disdain, saying,

"A dog like you dares to challenge me?"

Hate and fury swirled in his heart, but Shawn restrained himself and buried those emotions deep within. With a self-deprecating shake of his head, he said:

"I won’t spoil your appetite by recounting the details in this setting, Moen. Suffice it to say, yes, I do harbor the intention to seek your favor. Yes, I do hope to eventually leverage the Duke’s influence to achieve certain goals.

"But tonight... tonight, I only wish for you to sit here. Because it allows her to see..."

Shawn placed his trembling hands atop his knees. His entire body shook as if every fiber and cell were quaking. Yet within his eyes burned an indomitable light, piercing and painful to behold.

"It’s been ten years. Ten whole years... and finally, I’ve taken the first step."

"..."

The music in the restaurant abruptly shifted, intensifying into a tempestuous, cutting melody.

Moen silently observed the man before him.

Though Shawn spoke of this as merely the first step of a decade-long journey, anyone could tell—he would not stop until his body surrendered, bled dry by his relentless crusade.

At this moment, Moen finally began to comprehend why the Emperor had chosen to promote this baron as the Lower City District's administrator.

It wasn’t just because of Shawn’s competence.

It wasn’t merely because his name united the royalist Campbells.

It was also because of the unyielding hatred burning in his heart.

That hate was like a dagger; wielded properly, it could strike deep into the hearts of those complacent, self-assured elites.