The Boy in the Stable

The little maid Rose O'Hara had now completely become James's shadow and sycophant. Every day during lessons, one could hear her exclaiming things like, "Young Master James is so amazing!" or "The young master is truly brilliant!"

Mr. Daniel was also growing increasingly confident in James's studies, though today, even though James had finished his assigned lessons and problems with his usual perfection, he seemed constantly distracted.

"Alright, James, let's end the lesson early today. With your current level of proficiency in arithmetic and English, there is no need to rush. Go and enjoy half a day of play. You have been working very hard these past few months; consider this a reward—you have the afternoon off!"

O'Hara cheered excitedly from the side and began buttering up Mr. Daniel again; this little schemer was destined to be a handful in the future. James still thanked Mr. Daniel politely before walking out of the room. He truly needed some time to think and process a few issues.

"What has Victor been doing lately?" he asked O'Hara, who was walking beside him as they headed downstairs.

"He should be doing the same as always. He starts by tidying the garden and lawn in the morning, and in the afternoon, he goes to work in the stables," the little maid said, counting on her fingers. "Victor's father is really awful. He makes his own son do all the gardening work while he sleeps at home, drunk every day. Young Master James, we haven't gone to see Victor in a long time. Shall we go visit him this afternoon?" She shook James's arm, pleading with him.

"Alright, we'll go to the stables to find Victor this afternoon." O'Hara froze for a moment, not expecting the young master—who had been so stubborn lately—to agree so readily. She couldn't help but smile, hopping along happily behind him. James really needed to have a talk with Victor, a good talk with this half-brother about their "father."

There were two things the Howlett Estate had in abundance: horses and guns. In the colonial territories, whether it was the early wars against the indigenous people, the struggle for territory between the British and French, or the current conflicts between estate owners over grazing lands, force was always the primary factor.

This was somewhat akin to a form of regional warlordism, and the colonial governors and government were happy to use this method to deepen their control over the local areas. Although the British Empire was powerful, its land and population were limited, and the nation lacked the capacity to station enough military force in every colonial territory to maintain order.

Therefore, any person or faction loyal to the Imperial throne could raise their own troops and horses, enclose land, and declare themselves kings. All they needed to do was pay the required taxes; as for the existence of the government and the meaning of the law, those were of little importance. One very famous decree from the British royal family once stated that as long as one offered treasures to the Queen, even a pirate could be granted a noble title.

The estate had two stables. The one on the east side covered a vast area and could basically be called a horse farm. It spanned over ten thousand square meters, housed more than two hundred sturdy horses, and was tended to by over thirty workers day and night.

Mr. Howlett could mobilize a hundred western knights, armed with guns and mounted on horseback, at any moment. This was the source of his confidence as the largest estate owner in the Midwest. In this era, such an estate was, to a large extent, a military base.

The other stable was much smaller, with only a dozen or so horses, and it sat right next to the manor. These horses were fine steeds that Mr. Howlett favored greatly. Aside from being ridden by the Howlett Family, they were usually kept only for breeding purposes. Each horse stood over 1.8 meters tall, with sleek, glossy coats and a spirited, vigorous air. Victor Logan worked here.

"Victor, Victor Logan!" Before they even entered the stable, O'Hara began calling out Victor's name. This luxurious stable was well-stocked with ice, keeping the temperature quite cool. Victor Logan was wearing a sleeveless vest and was using a soft brush to groom a horse that was black and shining.

This was a stallion, and also the best stud horse on the estate. Its four hooves were far thicker than those of an average horse, and the mane on its head was thick and long. Whether viewed from a human perspective or a horse's "aesthetic," it was handsome to the extreme. Its name was Black Mountain, and it was the apple of Mr. Howlett's eye.

Victor lifted his head slightly and glanced at the incoming James and O'Hara, acknowledging them.

James scrutinized Victor carefully without starting any small talk. O'Hara, on the other hand, was jumping around, stroking Black Mountain's body and chattering away, asking Victor all sorts of questions.

The more James looked, the more astonished he became. Victor was only fifteen or sixteen this year, but he not only had the height of an adult, his frame was also exceptionally broad. If not for the lingering childishness on his face and his soft, sparse beard, his hulking physique would have made him look like a grown man.

His hands, in particular, were extraordinarily large, and the joints of his wrists were more than twice the size of an average man's. Those who practiced martial arts once roughly categorized bone thickness into "single-bone" and "double-bone," but Victor far exceeded this scope. Furthermore, his fingers were long and thick, with knuckles so wide they seemed to be stretching his skin, not to mention his nails, which were thick and long to an excessive degree. They looked more like bone protruding through flesh, or rather, they were simply the claws of a wild beast.

In the eyes of this former Grandmaster of martial arts, this body surpassed everything that could be described by the criteria for a gifted martial artist. Even stranger, James had always heard that Black Mountain was the best and most ferocious stud horse, and aside from Mr. Howlett, few people could get close to it. Yet, it was incredibly docile in front of Victor. In James's sensitive perception, inherited from his past life, he could faintly smell a faint aura lingering around Victor—an aura that, beyond that of a veteran warrior who had practiced for years or a butcher who had waded through slaughter, felt more like the scent of some apex predator.

"It's been a while since I've seen you. Did you get sick again, little girl James?" Victor spoke first, though he didn't stop the work in his hands.

James didn't mind the mockery. He walked over to look at Black Mountain and leaned in to stroke its muzzle. Victor subconsciously stepped forward, wanting to stop James, but Black Mountain didn't show the resistance he expected; it lowered its head submissively and nuzzled James's small hand.

Victor looked at him strangely, remaining silent for a moment.

"O'Hara, look at that little horse over there." James pointed to a pure white foal inside. O'Hara's eyes immediately filled with hearts, and she ran over, hugging the foal's neck and petting and kissing it. Victor's gaze toward James became increasingly different.

"Do you have to do so much work every day? I heard that Mr. Logan's work is basically all done by you." James asked, appearing casual.

"Not everyone is named Howlett. If you don't work, what do you eat?" Victor's words were natural, devoid of any dissatisfaction or complaining tone.

He paused for a moment, then continued: "That man only knows how to drink every night and sleeps soundly all day. If I don't do it, am I waiting for Mr. Howlett to kick us out?" James keenly noticed that when Victor mentioned "that man," the masseter muscles on his cheeks bulged high.

"Then, is he... is he good to you?" James asked somewhat directly, immediately regretting being so impatient. Surprisingly, Victor didn't get angry; instead, he said with a mix of self-satisfaction and mockery: "Hmph, when he hits me now, I can't even feel much pain. He can't even leave a single scar. He's completely useless!"

"Then, how about making him stay away from you?"

This sentence seemed to startle the little beast. Victor stared fixedly at James: "What do you mean?"

"Nothing, just asking. Since you hate him so much, I assume you don't want to be with him."

Victor sneered and looked away. "I'll leave on my own when I'm older."

O'Hara walked over, pulling the cute little white foal. She shouted at James: "James, Young Master James, can I name it White Dove?"

"It's a horse, why would you call it White Dove?"

The little maid protested: "No, White Dove is very cute, like a lady. Please, Young Master James!"

"Suit yourself. No one cares what you call it anyway," James said helplessly. O'Hara hugged White Dove, satisfied, and begged Victor to lift her up so she could ride it for a while. A few dull, crisp footsteps approached the stable entrance, and Mr. Howlett pushed the door open. As a man over sixty, he was already "rare since ancient times" in an era where average life expectancy was not high, and someone as capable and agile as Mr. Howlett was even rarer. One could imagine how strong and full of vitality he must have been in his youth.

Mr. Howlett, who spotted his little grandson at a glance, twitched his graying mustache and said in a booming voice: "We have two little ones skipping class here!"