Lanche had no talent. No one bothered teaching him swordsmanship or magic—it’d be a waste of time.

His days were spent reading. When the maidservant went shopping in town, he’d tag along unnoticed, gaining freedom to roam as he pleased.

On the streets, he greeted street vendors and shopkeepers, flashed admiring looks at mercenaries, and made friends. He learned more about this world here than from books—especially since the Bolnors manor held few to begin with.

Lord Gorde cared only for brute strength. Civil duties? Trade? Tasks for servants.

"Young Master Lanche," the maid reminded him gently, "even merchants need talent."

As far as she knew, Lanche had none. Utterly ordinary.

In this world, your fate was sealed by talent grade—even cooks and carpenters needed it.

"You really think the talent I *show* is all I have?" Lanche grinned mysteriously.

*His* lack of talent had nothing to do with *me*, Su Che.

The maid dismissed it as pretense. "Lord Gorde has arranged your marriage. You’ll marry into the Claire Family. It’s the only contribution you can make."

"Hope they don’t saddle me with some fat noblewoman," Lanche shrugged.

"You’re not in a position to choose," she shot back bluntly.

Lanche snorted. No point explaining. "Even if I marry a plump noblewoman, I’ll charm her silly, flirt with pretty maids behind her back, and live freely as long as I draw breath. No one cages my soul!"

"Mhm, mhm," the maid replied, utterly unimpressed.

Lanche had grown less endearing with age, always spouting nonsense.

He sighed inwardly. This world was brutally unfair: low talent grade meant you were trash, no matter how hard you tried. High grade? You’d thrive without lifting a finger.

*Perfect.* He’d never been fond of effort anyway. He rather enjoyed these unfair perks landing in his lap.

Soon, the engagement proceeded smoothly—no last-minute rejections upon discovering his "worthlessness." Probably an honest transaction from the start.

At fifteen, Lanche had just come of age.

People here matured early—die young if you didn’t. Fifteen was adulthood; most married by eighteen, died fighting demons or wars by their twenties, leaving ten-year-olds to fend for themselves.

Lanche, talentless nobility, was part of that common majority. His bloodline alone made him a political pawn.

*Why pick me for this alliance?* The only explanation he could muster: the other side fancied young boys.

His sole hope? That the Claire household employed young, pretty maids.

…

Wedding day.

Groom Lanche strolled alone through the manor’s flower gardens, admiring the blooms while waiting for the ceremony’s final call.

No one had sought him out before the vows. He avoided the crowd anyway—tired of hearing "trash" and "talentless" whispered behind his back.

Nobles filled the hall. Lord Gorde attended personally with his family, bearing lavish gifts. The venue itself screamed wealth—a private manor rented for a single day, a luxury even the local Earl couldn’t afford.

All signs pointed to the Claires being obscenely rich.

"Earl Belnos," a balding, portly man murmured, "who *is* this Viscount Clarein? I’ve never heard of him…"

His hushed question drew every ear. Everyone had wondered the same.

Invitations bore the Claire Family seal alongside Earl Belnos’s endorsement—or no one would’ve come for an unknown noble.

Curiosity crackled through the room: Why would an Earl marry his son into obscurity? Especially a *worthless* son?

Gorde remained calm, reading the crowd. "Since you’re all curious," he announced, "let Viscount Clarein introduce himself."

Applause erupted. A middle-aged man in fine robes stepped forward, wrinkles softening his authority but his crinkled eyes radiating warmth. He waved, making his way toward Gorde.

Under Gorde’s guidance, he greeted every noble—like a character stepping onto the stage.

"The Claire name is unfamiliar to many," the Viscount declared proudly. "Because our title was granted four centuries ago by the Kingdom of Sain’s very first king!"

"The first king…? A noble from the Hero King’s era?" Gasps turned toward Gorde.

Gorde nodded firmly. "History records confirm it. During the First Demon War, our ancestors followed the Hero King to vanquish the Demon Kin and forge Sain."

"The Claire bloodline carries the *same glory* as the Bolnors!" Gorde proclaimed.

Nods of understanding rippled through the crowd. Flattery poured onto the Viscount.

The Claires had officially entered noble society.

As for their absence from records? The Viscount explained his ancestor preferred travel over land grants, wandering the world until descendants returned home.

No one could verify it—but with Earl Belnos’s backing and ties to royal history, doubts faded.

Most convincing was the Claire wealth. Everyone understood why Gorde would "gift" his useless son.

"Our ancestors traveled widely," the Viscount chuckled modestly. "Later generations built businesses. Made a modest fortune. A homecoming, you might say."

His eyes scanned the crowd. *Where is Her Highness?*

The ceremony was moments away. Had the Princess changed her mind about marrying a human nobody?

The old steward’s heart sank. *Not now. Not when it matters most.*