Refusal

Early the next morning, Renard quietly closed the bedroom door. After telling the servants not to disturb Selina, he hurried out of the castle and headed for the center of town.

Before leaving Saint Brieuc Fortress, he needed to give Baron Hamilton a heads-up. Aside from making sure the baron wouldn't forget about him, he also wanted to see if he could pluck a few more feathers from that stingy old rooster.

Baron Hamilton usually worked at his villa in the center of town. Only when something important came up did he summon his subordinates to the castle for a secret meeting.

About ten minutes later, Renard arrived in front of the two-story building.

Unlike the other brick-and-stone buildings nearby, the villa was built entirely of dressed stone. It was sturdy and imposing, fully reflecting the lord's status and authority.

The moment Renard stepped inside, however, the lavish decor nearly gave him a heart attack.

Perhaps the baron wanted to show off his wealth—or perhaps he simply had poor taste. The villa was full of glittering gold and bright red, dazzling enough to make anyone squint.

The walls were painted golden yellow, and golden-yellow tiles covered the floor beneath a thick, reddish-brown carpet. The tables, chairs, chandeliers, and ceiling were all decorated in gold and red. Even the candlesticks were gold.

The vases arranged around the room were just as uniformly ornate. Their dazzling appearance made Renard's heart twitch. He muttered to himself, The old man really has a peculiar fondness for gold and reddish brown.

In fact, Renard had misjudged him. This was simply the most popular style of decor among the nobles of the Kingdom of Arthur. The baron was only following the trend.

Of course, most people used this style for castles and palaces. He was probably the only one who'd decorated a villa like this.

After crossing the almost outrageously luxurious living room, Renard went up to the second floor. The decor up here was fairly normal, with nothing particularly eye-catching.

When he entered the office, Renard finally saw Baron Hamilton enjoying a meal.

The lord wore a broad smile, as if something had put him in a good mood. But the instant he saw Renard, his smile vanished, leaving no trace of warmth or friendliness.

If there was one thing that described the change, it was a complete about-face.

Baron Hamilton cleared his throat, signaling the servants to remove the dishes. Then he fixed his gaze on the unwelcome visitor.

Renard didn't care in the slightest about the baron's hostile attitude. He walked to the dining table and bowed respectfully. "Good afternoon, Father."

"Mm. What is it?" Baron Hamilton replied coolly, wiping the grease from his mouth with a napkin. The gesture looked rather incongruous with his burly build.

The baron was a little curious. As far as he could remember, his son had never come to this villa before. It was where he kept his mistresses, so why was he making an exception today?

Renard paid no mind to what the baron might be thinking and spoke frankly. "Father, I want to travel, then go to Constantinople Academy to continue my martial arts studies."

"That's not a bad idea." Baron Hamilton didn't refuse, but neither did he agree outright. It was a response that invited speculation.

"You think so too?" Renard's tone remained calm. He didn't think the baron would refuse. After all, he was the scourge of Saint Brieuc Fortress; his father ought to be glad to see him leave.

But, unexpectedly, Baron Hamilton furrowed his brow, as if the decision were a difficult one.

After a long silence, the baron took a deep breath and shook his head. "No."

Renard's mouth fell open. Was this really the same father who, as he remembered him, had been eager to throw him as far away as possible?

He tried to say something more, but the baron cut him off with a wave of his hand. "I know what you're thinking."

Baron Hamilton gave his son a long look, then added, "You weren't to blame for what happened at the academy. But if you go back to get revenge, then you will be at fault. You understand how much trouble you'd bring to the Duncan Family if you actually succeeded."

Renard fell silent. He was deeply unhappy with that answer, but he couldn't deny the truth of it. Scum Renard had made enemies who were far too powerful—even powerful enough to intimidate the Duncan Family.

But he had no choice. Are you kidding? If I don't go to Constantinople, you'll be seeing your son buried in two years.

So Renard bravely took two steps forward and said firmly, "I'm going back. Of course, I can promise not to seek revenge. I just want to finish my studies without any trouble."

"Do you expect me to believe you? You've caused me no end of trouble over the years!" Baron Hamilton's expression suddenly turned stern.

Then he slapped his napkin onto the table in irritation and scolded, "I don't want to hear another word about Constantinople Academy. This matter is closed."

In the past, the baron would indeed have been pleased to get rid of this troublemaker. But after nearly losing his son, he was now terrified of losing him—and even more afraid that his son would bring disaster down on them.

Remembering how his wife had repeatedly urged him to take good care of their son before she passed away, Baron Hamilton felt a sudden pang of heartache. His voice grew heavy. "I spoiled you too much before. From now on, you'll stay home and study."

Looking at his father's stern expression, Renard pressed his lips together in frustration. Knowing how stubborn the baron could be, he realized he couldn't force the issue. In the end, he could only sigh in disappointment and turn to leave the villa.

Watching his son's dejected figure, Baron Hamilton didn't know what to feel. He had watched everything his son had done over the past two months. It was as if he'd become a different person.

If he hadn't discreetly asked a few very personal questions and received fluent answers to all of them, he would have wondered whether this was really his son.

Could that incident have affected him so deeply?

Baron Hamilton shook his head hard, dismissing the absurd thought. His son was a notorious scoundrel, shameless as a castle wall. How could he have been so affected? At most, he was still nursing a temporary grudge.

The baron thought he understood his son, but he had no idea that everyone had a limit—especially someone like Scum Renard, whose extreme temperament made him even less resilient than an ordinary person.

Imagine a pampered rich young master being falsely accused of peeping, then beaten to the ground in front of his classmates, stripped naked, and paraded through the streets. Could he endure such humiliation?

And he had nowhere to complain. Even his mentor thought he was at fault. How could anyone put such a grievance into words?

As Renard walked down the road, anger blazed inside him. He had to get even. He would make those people understand what happened when they angered him.

At some point, the shut-in Renard had become completely immersed in the role of Scum Renard.