The boy's knees slammed into the ground, cold sweat dripping from his temples into the dust.
He opened his mouth, but only broken, breathy sounds escaped.
"You've spent all this time in the family, and your horizons are still this narrow?"
Rossi finally stopped, the iron ball sinking into the dirt with a dull thud.
He turned around, his gaze devoid of anger, as though he were looking at something perfectly ordinary.
Even men like Trebol and Diamante would probably have long since sunk into those tender traps, unable to extricate themselves, had daily training not kept them tied to this place.
Bolkin was no exception-suddenly elevated from a worker's son, he had merchants and factory owners taking turns fawning over him: banquets wrapped in gold leaf, amber liquor, delicacies he had never heard of, and those places to go after dark... There were far too many.
The first few times, someone always scrambled to pay Bolkin's bill.
But how could banquets be held every day? In the end, he had to shoulder his own expenses.
Once he stepped into that life of reckless extravagance, money became sand he could not hold, slipping through his fingers in the blink of an eye.
"Do you understand now? They've been making a fool of you."
Rossi lowered his eyes to the boy kneeling on the ground.
Sweat had soaked through his finely tailored suit, the fabric clinging to his trembling back.
So many people envied those so-called "rich kids"
without knowing that this status could sometimes be a net instead.
Without shrewdness and self-restraint, the smiling lawyers and partners around you would quietly indulge your greed-women, **, even those curling fumes... By the time you came to your senses, your family fortune would have been drained dry, and even your connections would