Disregard Fantasy, Acquire Currency: 1 (Patreon)

Title is a working title. Not final by any means, but I like it. This story is something light-hearted that I've always wanted to read, personally, but never found one that matched my taste-- a tale where the transmigrated protagonist forsakes all the hero stuff, disregarding might and magic to build a business empire. I suppose it qualifies as slice of life. I'm not entirely sure. There won't be much killing.

Much.

The humor in having one story be about someone deep in debt, and the other be about someone who puts people in debt, is not lost on me.

This is actually the second chapter-- before I post the first, I want to make the introduction a whole lot snappier, so it captures the essence of the humor and the tone I'm going for. I'm going to focus on this story for a while, posting 2 chapters every weekend, until I have a sufficient backlog to edit and revamp and push out to RR. Any feedback will be used to overhaul things.

Enjoy.
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Willem set down the teacup. He wanted a morning drink, but he didn’t like tea especially. He liked to drink something that tasted something like battery acid smothered in sugar and cream. Tea, contrarily, was subtle and faint, like grass in a puddle. This brew in particular tasted like someone had dropped a hard candy into water and left it there.

“Would you like more, young lord?” the male attendant asked carefully.

“God no.” Willem shook his head, and the attendant seemed uneasy.

Willem studied the young man. Brown hair, brown eyes, pale skin. Quite plain, all things considered. He was short—that was a good sign. From Willem’s experience, short people were generally angrier, but they tended to work harder in light of their… shortcomings. Additionally, they made him seem taller than he actually was when they stood beside him. He only hired people shorter than him as secretaries or attendants. It was purely business reasons, and not at all personal.

Right now, he might need a hand. It wasn’t often that he was thrown off-balance, but waking up in another’s body threw quite the large wrench into his plans.

But his scrutiny made the man uncomfortable, and he asked uncertainly, “Young lord…?”

“What’s your name?” Willem asked.

The man closed his eyes like death had come to him. “Dirk, young lord.”

“Dirk?” Willem laughed. “That’s it? Dirk?”

“Yes.” The man lowered his head.

Willem pointed his finger. “You’re perfect, Dirk.”

Dirk lifted his head in surprise. “What? The tea, young lord? Or…?”

“You have a pitiful look about you.” Willem leaned in slightly. “Sad eyes, I’d say. You’re short, and you look malnourished. You were probably bullied as a child. I certainly would have bullied you, were we both children. Even your name, Dirk… it just exudes a certain sadness. It’s perfect for what I need.”

Dirk’s defensiveness redoubled, and he cast glances at the door. “I-I… don’t follow.”

“I don’t really know why I’m here, but I’m not the type to ask too many questions,” Willem explained. “It seems like there’s a succession happening. Right? Dear old dad is dying, but frankly, I couldn’t care less about who ends up in his seat. I could, however, do with having someone at my side that works hard.”

“But… the young lord spent so much of his time practicing his swordplay, and manifesting his aura. You’re a rival to the eldest, even. And the baron’s illness… that…” he trailed off, then swallowed nervously.

“I keep hearing this term. What’s aura?”

Dirk looked at him uncertainly, like he was being toyed with. “Aura… is a manifestation of a knight’s will. With it, they can perform incredible feats far beyond what the body—”

“Alright, I get it.” Willem waved to silence Dirk. “So, it’s magic.”

“Not… not magic, young lord. A swordsman must—”

“It’s sword magic, then.” Willem nodded.

“It’s not magic,” Dirk insisted firmly, then added as a panicked afterthought, “…young lord. Having trained with the sword, you should know this.”

“Whatever.” Willem turned to the table. “This very non-magical magic power isn’t my problem, anyway. From what I get of the picture, things might get a little bit murder-y soon. Tell me—does this place have laws?”

Dirk nodded.

“Do you know these laws?”

Dirk furrowed his brows, then said, “The ones I need to.”

“Alright. You tried, Dirk.” He stood up. “Where would one need to go to learn the laws of succession?”

“I believe the library would have them, young lord,” Dirk supplied.

“Great. Dirk, please go get me any and all books related to succession law.” He clasped his hands together. “There’s probably a very civil way out of all this.”

Dirk processed the command, but stood in place. “The law… I’m quite certain that anything written down will dictate you have no legal claim to become baron.”

“Wonderful.” Willem smiled. “Hurry up and get it, if you would. Take a tea cookie as a service fee.”

“What are you planning to do?” Dirk asked.

“Are you writing a book? Spying on me?” he pressed. Dirk tensed at the last question, but Willem missed that fact. “I’m going to see if there isn’t a way I can’t ease my brothers’ fears in a legal fashion. Disinheritance, perhaps? Of course, I’d need my share of the trust to be bought out, so to speak.”

Dirk looked stunned. “What… what would the young lord do without the Brugh family?”

“If I can? Nothing!” Willem smiled. “Let me tell you something, Dirk. I seldom give lessons, so I suggest you pay close attention.” He leaned in, and Dirk came to attention. “Do you want to know who lives the best life?”

Dirk waited, but no answer came. He answered, “The nobility? The dukes, the kings?”

“Ew. No.” Willem scrunched up his face in disgust. “Sure, you get a lot of power. But you’re overseeing this vast territory full of people who resent you for levying taxes, and you have all these people trying to take your place or your territory. You can’t just sit around eating grapes—this is how coups begin. Some prime minister sees some king living a bit too well, and then he decides to get a guillotine and start a revolution. Forget the king. I’d never do that job.”

Dirk didn’t look like he entirely agreed, but he only asked, “Who, then?”

“The financiers,” Willem said grandly. “The investors. The moneylenders. They give someone else a penny, and that man or woman uses it to work long and hard. When all is said and done, that penny comes back—with interest. Instead of levying taxes, you avoid them.” Willem emphasized that point with a finger. “While the actual workers are breaking their back, the money men sit around reading books, eating grapes, chatting, gossiping… you can live like a rich child with absentee parents.”

Dirk frowned. “I had parents like that. It wasn’t…”

“Well, I said a rich child. It’s different for you, I imagine. You have my condolences. Being poor must be rough—not that I’d know,” Willem apologized. “But stay with me, Dirk, and you can have someone feed you grapes. If you work hard enough, it might even be a woman.”

Dirk looked at Willem peculiarly. “What are grapes, even?”

Willem smiled and clenched his fist. “Get the damn books, Dirk.”

“At once, young lord.”

Dirk left the room hastily, and Willem spent some time examining the room. He’d often heard his friends talk about how they’d trade all the money in the world to get some of their youth back. He’d never expected such a thing to happen again. He was a young man again, it seemed. Even despite all of that, Willem could only think of one thing.

Wouldn’t it be fun to do it all again, from the ground up?

But a knock at the door disturbed him from these pleasant thoughts, and he rose to his feet. “Forget something?”

The door opened, and a well-groomed butler stepped inside. “Your father is ready for visiting. Your brothers have called for you.”

#####

Four young men stood around a bed where an emaciated older man laid wrapped in blankets. It was clear from their shared appearance that the five were close family—golden hair, blue eyes, cream skin. They were all quite physically fit, excepting the sickly man lying down with his eyes closed. He bore scars from years of warfare, and his considerable frame seemed to make his atrophied muscles all the more pitiable.

The scene couldn’t be clearer—four sons, standing at what could be the deathbed of their father.

One might expect tears in such a situation; hugs of comfort, either among themselves or with the man dying. But the four brothers only cast glances at one another, each without a shred of grief. Two of them looked like hyenas ready to fight over who had the right to eat from the corpse first. The eldest looked guarded, well-ready to defend what he already viewed as his.

Then, there was the middle child—Willem. He had an excuse to be detached from this situation. He was desperately trying to remember these people’s names. After all, he’d met all of these people for the first time yesterday. This didn’t seem like an ordinary family, but then it wasn’t ordinary to wake up in a new body, either.

Two days ago, Willem had been doing nothing in particular. It was quite nice. Then, he awoke as this strapping fellow. They shared the same first name, but not much else.  Now, people went around calling him ‘young lord’ and bowing—still quite nice, but not to his taste. He was fond of his new surname, though: ‘van Brugh.’ It had some dignity, some heft.

The door opened, and a brown-haired maid entered. “Young lords. I would tend to the baron, with your leave.”

The other three made to leave, and Willem followed half a step behind like a good lemming until they entered into a drawing room. The moment the door shut, the eldest approached Willem. He wore his blond hair in a long ponytail, which spoke either of confidence in his manliness or a lack of care for his grooming. His name was Lennard, if Willem recalled correctly.

“Are you happy?” Lennard asked Willem, hovering near his face.

“Not particularly. Should I be?” Willem took a step back, not wishing to smell the man’s breath.

Lennard threw his arms wide. “Considering you finally got what you wanted, yeah, maybe. Do you honestly think that doing this will help you inherit the barony? We’re on the frontier of the kingdom, here. We can’t afford disunity.”

Another brother chimed in, saying, “You sound demented, Lennard. The gin you drink—it ruins the mind. I always told you to lay off the drinking. Right, Hans?”

Frederik was the one who’d spoken—he was short and sharp. Hans was easy to recognize, simply because he was the biggest of them. He nodded in support of his younger brother, who still had a touch of youth with a lathering of arrogance. Lennard turned around and stared at them like they were pests. He was angry, but he had decorum enough not to lash out.

“You know I’m right,” Lennard told them. “On the frontier, power and leadership matter above all. None of you can hold a candle to me. Hans has the aura, but not the skill. Frederik has the skill, but not the aura. And Willem… nobody would ever accept you as their liege with your reputation.” He shook his head in Willem’s general direction. “The Brugh family could wither overnight if we turn this succession into a war. The king won’t tolerate disruptions on the borderlands. He’d have us replaced.”

Willem felt it was far too early in the morning for such conversations, and caressed his forehead tiredly.

“So, you’re not even being vague about it anymore?” Frederik stepped forward up to Lennard. “You think aphorisms about our talent make it fact, do you? We need a strong leader—one with insight, and the ability to command. Father always said I was the smartest.”

“Smart people get their heads cut off all the time,” Lennard said icily. “Besides, he called you useless just as often as he called you smart. If you took over, you’d freeze like a scared rabbit the first moment enemy troops crossed the border. I doubt you could even manifest your aura.”

The two confronted each other like angry yellow housecats—a lot of hissing and snarling, but not much fighting.

“Is there any coffee?” Willem pondered aloud.

All of them looked at him, but only Hans thought to ask, “What?”

“No? More tea, then.” He headed for the door.  

“Where are you going?!” Lennard insisted.

Willem stopped before he opened the door. “Is it my turn to claim that daddy loved me the most?” As he smiled, Lennard and Frederik seemed to remember shame existed. “Whatever the hell you three are doing—it’s not my business.”

“You’re the reason we’re in this mess,” Frederik pointed out. “If this isn’t your business, what is?”

“My business is business.” Willem smiled, then gracefully left the room.