The shattered cup was still spinning on the floor, the crystalline tremor still lingering, and the air in the room seemed to have momentarily frozen.
No one sitting next to Mr. Simon said anything; it was Simon's family matter, and they had no right to interfere.
The young man snapped out of his dizziness. In that moment of darkness and vertigo, he managed to stand steadily. He ignored the warm trickle from his head and maintained his humble, cautious, and hopeful smile.
"Father, I've brought some tea and pastries for you, it's been over two hours."
Mr. Simon glanced coldly at the almost empty kettle on the coffee table in front of him and said, "Put the items on the shelf next to you and leave. Without my permission, no one can come in, including you!"
The young man carefully placed the tray, which had spilled some tea, on the shelf, a place meant for small parts. It had a base with a shallow bowl-like decoration in the middle, slightly recessed.
Such small items could be placed there without worrying they would scatter around.
It was not meant to hold a tray, but now it carried one that didn't belong there and shouldn't have been there in the first place.
"I'll leave now, Father, gentlemen…", the young man bowed before leaving, and when he closed the door, it made no sound.
As the door was about to close, the young man lifted his head, and in the narrow world through the door crack, his gaze met Mr. Simon's.
A gaze full of disdain. Simon never liked this child. If not for quickly getting along with the locals or diminishing his "foreigner" label, he wouldn't have married a native woman and had a child.
A half-breed, bastard, or whatever, in his eyes, the child was just a tool to maintain his image among the locals.
But with the influx of outside forces, Federation merchants, and Preton's escape, these things lost their value, and he grew even more impatient with the child who displeased him.
Compared to Mr. Simon's intense loathing, the young man's gaze was much simpler, filled with hope, humility, sadness... and despair.
The young man never understood what he had done wrong for his father never to like him. If he didn't like him, why did he bring him into the world?
Repeated efforts only led to repeated despair, and he seemed to have realized that no matter how well he did, he was always just a child no one liked.
As the door was about to close, he once again lowered his head like countless times before, and only then did Mr. Simon's gaze move away from him.
"Young Master…"
The butler stood outside the door. He knew what had happened, but there was nothing he could do.
Compared to the foreigner Mr. Simon, he actually had a better impression of the young master, perhaps because the young master had at least half Nagariel blood in him.
The young man looked at the butler, his face already stained red by blood, and he grinned, "Father still hates me."
The butler couldn't help but take out a handkerchief, pressing it on the young man's wound, and whispered comfortingly, "It's not like that, young master, actually…", he wanted to make something up but found that no matter how he spun it, it couldn't change the fact.
"Actually, the master has been in a bad mood lately; you know, the Pretton Trading Company went bankrupt, and the Beile people are coming here to snatch business."
The young man was unmoved. He only said one sentence, rendering the old butler speechless, "I am his son…"
Indeed, no matter how bad someone's mood is, they wouldn't do such a thing, smashing a cup on their own son's head and kicking him out in front of so many outsiders.
No matter how you explain it, it can't hide the cruel truth behind these issues: the patriarch of this family, Mr. Simon, simply doesn't like his son, no matter how outstanding he is.
The old butler didn't dare say anything more, and was at a loss for words. The young man held the handkerchief, "It's okay, Grandpa Butler, don't worry about me. It has always been this way, and will continue to be this way. Once you get used to it, it doesn't seem so scary."
"Your head…", the old butler's heart ached. He had watched the young master grow from a little tot to who he was now, and the young master was always polite, winning over the butler with just one call of 'Grandpa Butler'.
But the issues between this father and son were many and significant; he could only choose silence.
Seeing the young master's head injured, he had a strong impulse to ask Mr. Simon why he did this.
"It's not bleeding much anymore…", the young man slightly loosened the handkerchief. He couldn't feel new warm liquid flowing from the wound. Actually, the cut wasn't large, it just bled a lot, which was frightening.
After pressing for a while, the bleeding had stopped.
The old butler was still a bit worried, "Young master, go to the courtyard, and I'll have someone at home tend to your wound…"
The young man nodded, "Thank you, and please, don't let my mother know about this."
The old butler nodded again and quickly departed. The young man walked to a corner of the courtyard and found a place to sit. Before long, a maid in her thirties hurried over, carrying a medical kit in her hand.
Sitting under the shade of a tree, the young man gazed calmly at the distant street scene, the sorrow in his eyes unable to be dissolved even by the remaining sunlight.
"Thank you!" After the maid had treated his wound, he turned to express his gratitude for her efforts. The maid, aware of the household's circumstances, offered a few words of consolation before leaving.
Just as the young man was about to return inside, some commotion erupted outside.
A group of young people were gathered together, seemingly arguing, possibly involving foreigners.
He paused briefly to watch but found it uninteresting and decided to head back.
He knew that Mr. Simon disliked him associating with those questionable individuals; he barely had any friends his age.
Little did he know, at that moment, he had caught Mr. Simon's attention.
"After all, he's just a native mongrel..." Mr. Simon in the room removed the cigarette from his mouth, exhaled a smoky breath, and turned to look at the others.
This child, whom he disliked, was quickly pushed out of his mind. What concerned him now was what the Federation merchants would bring, and what it would mean for him.
"The United Development Company doesn't agree to let us buy shares. If we can't buy shares, it means we won't get quotas..."
The man speaking was also not a local; he was a merchant from abroad but residing locally. "I've gathered some inside information through certain connections. They plan to monopolize all import and export trade like Trading Company did before."
"Major shareholders can import or export anything at will, while minor shareholders have to rely on quotas. Their management is stricter than those Pretton people."
"If we can't join the United Development Company and get some shares, it means our products won't be able to go out, and foreign products won't come in. We'll immediately lose our path to making money."
Another man knocked on the coffee table, picked up the kettle, poured himself a cup of water, and ungracefully drank it in one gulp. "Have you contacted Lynch? I heard we've divided his subordinates on our side. Why does he get to be on par with those consortiums?"
The others looked at Mr. Simon. Mr. Simon was still smoking by the window, where the child he detested had vanished from the courtyard, allowing him to refocus his gaze outside.
When asked by those behind, he nodded immediately, "I've already sent someone to communicate. No matter what, I'll find a way to meet him."
"As for why he can be on par with big consortiums, perhaps it's because he represents the interests of the Federation President."
His words left the others momentarily stunned, "Do you have new information?"
"Nothing new, just a speculation," Mr. Simon stubbed out the cigarette in his hand, walked back, and sat on the sofa. As he poured himself some water, he continued, "Lynch has a good personal relationship with Truman and also a decent relationship with the President."
"It's hard not to wonder if there might be some exchange of interests among them. You know, without the President or Truman supporting Lynch from behind, those big consortiums wouldn't take him seriously."
Another person asked, "Do you mean the hope is slim since what we're fighting for isn't Lynch's share but the share held by the President or Truman?"
Mr. Simon smiled noncommittally and took a long draw on his cigarette, feeling a bit thirsty.
After putting down his cup, he said, "Whether my speculation is right or not, this is our last chance, and I'll do my best to secure it, but we also need to be prepared."
He pondered for a moment, "If things go wrong, we must evacuate Nagariel."
His expression was serious, causing some to feel a bit uneasy.
A few seconds later, someone broke the uneasy atmosphere, "Not very likely, though, remember we're not these natives. If they act against us, the Federation would be the one to lose face in the end!"
Mr. Simon thought for a moment and seemed to agree but remained cautious, "I hope they consider their own and their nation's reputation, but I'm always worried."
"Actually, we've made quite a bit of money over the years. If necessary, taking a step back isn't impossible."
"Being a retired scholar at home may lack some excitement, but it's stable, and to be honest, I'm a bit homesick..." He looked up at a photograph in the cabinet ahead, showing his wife, his children.
They shared the same lineage, the same skin color, eye color, spoke the same accent, received the same education...
They were his real family!
They were his real children!
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