A Sensible Summer Vacation (4)
After arriving in this world, Cleio never imagined anything could be harder than pulling all-nighters memorizing grimoires and casting spells until he collapsed.
He endured the long ordeal by focusing only on the 800,000 dinars he'd be able to withdraw in cash later that afternoon.
"Just half a day more. The one who endures to the end wins."
Up until the moment they took his measurements, things were still tolerable—embarrassing, yes, but tolerable. What followed, however, was an endless sequence of fittings and tests.
In Cleio's mind, one or two sets of everyday clothes should've sufficed. But Dione's understanding of "proper attire" differed greatly from his own.
A long daytime jacket with matching trousers and vest, a formal tailcoat for evening wear, a light suit for casual gatherings, a tweed suit for sports, six shirts.
The fabric, the collars, the cuffs, the pocket shapes—she questioned, compared, and changed them without pause.
"I'm going insane."
Even after all that, Dione was still picking out ties and handkerchiefs. Completely drained, Cleio melted into the sofa, his body refusing to move.
After hearing the same question a hundred times—"Which color do you prefer?" "Which pattern looks better?"—he couldn't help but let a sharp remark slip.
"Clothes made in a place like this must cost quite a lot. Was this your father's idea as well?"
'That same man who made such a fuss about the school uniform costing two thousand dinars, huh.'
Dione, having just given her final instructions to the tailor and the staff after three hours and forty minutes, sat down and replied firmly.
"Yes, it was your father's wish. He said since you rarely went out before attending the Royal Capital Defense Academy, you didn't even have a proper set of clothes. He insisted you be fully equipped with the basics."
"A man's clothes are all the same once they're formalwear. Why must we examine every type of fabric and color again and again…?"
"Do you really mean what you just said, young master?"
Dione's polite smile vanished completely. Her expression turned cold and sharp.
"Listen, young master. Baron Asser isn't always right, but in this—he's absolutely correct. When people see someone for the first time, they judge by their clothes, their accessories, their manners. What's inside, their talents—that comes after."
"I simply meant that since I'm not attending business meetings, all this seems excessive."
"Oh, heavens—are you trying to sound like a blockhead?"
"What."
Cleio had expected Dione to have a bit of a temper, but hearing her blunt honesty out of nowhere still startled him.
"My tongue slipped. Anyway—honestly! People say you're young, but I didn't think this young. You pretended to be so mature you even fooled me, Dione."
'She's what, ten years younger than me? And she's lecturing me like this?'
Jung-jin silently chanted "800,000 dinars" in his head to endure the moment.
"All right, let's start with an easy question. Why do you think Baron Asser went through all that trouble to get you admitted to the Royal Capital Defense Academy?"
"Wasn't it because of my late mother's wish?"
"You're giving your father too much credit for sentimentality. Do you truly think he spent hundreds of thousands of dinars on his second son only because of that?"
"…Probably not."
That question stung the back of his head.
If only it were just "for love of his late wife." But even from one brief meeting, it was clear Gideon Asser was not a romantic man.
Now everything connected—the academy, the mansion prepared for the banquet, the shrewd private tutor.
He wanted to plant his son in the political sphere.
'I always thought that school was rotten to the core… so that's what this was about? Does that man not know his own son? He's pushing a timid, awkward kid into that vipers' nest!'
"Now you're beginning to see? Unlike his elder son, Vlad, your father never trained you in business. Instead, he placed you in a school that will produce the next cabinet and military leadership."
'Right, that place was a breeding ground for corruption.'
Cleio's face, moments ago simply weary, now twisted with the disillusionment of a thirty-two-year-old Korean man.
He'd never lived as part of a rich family, so he hadn't anticipated this—once people have enough money, they always start craving power.
"Then why doesn't he pursue it himself? Why put such vain expectations on a son with no talent for it?"
"If you keep saying foolish things, I might really slap you. Look—your father was born a commoner, earned his title of baron through industrial merit. He didn't have the network or reputation to become a member of the Commons. And do you think those high, noble Lords in the Upper House would ever appoint a man like him as Minister of Commerce? No, that kind of advancement only happens in the next generation."
The words drove home how alien this world truly was.
"How can one host a proper party without an inherited mansion or a wine cellar? The highborn never treat someone they first saw at the table yesterday as a peer. It's faster to raise one's children as part of the next generation of elites—that's how you join the establishment."
It was utter nonsense. This was exactly why class societies were rotten. Money wasn't enough; you had to inherit everything else too.
'No wonder Gideon turned into such a bastard. But seriously, what does that have to do with me?'
It was a touching tale of ambition and struggle, but to Cleio, it was someone else's problem.
'He's got two sons—let the capable one handle it. Why should I be the one sacrificed for his ambition?'
"The mood's gotten too heavy, hasn't it? Let's finish our tea and be on our way. You'll have to come again for your fitting, so be sure to thank the tailor properly."
He doubted there'd ever be a next fitting, but he played along for now. The only thing solid in his mind was his decision—to bolt the moment he had the cash in hand tonight.
Drained both mentally and physically, Cleio staggered out of the shop—but stopped for a moment at the entrance.
"Please add a red ribbon tie to the order."
"You had no interest in clothes all day, and now you want that? Isn't it a bit childish for you, young master?"
Dione immediately rejected the idea with a sharp shake of her head, but Cleio gave a small smile and replied,
"It's not for me—it's for the gentleman cat."
"!!!"
Her face lit up instantly.
"I didn't even think of that! Aaaah, our darling Moot—how adorable he'll look in this!"
Setting down her parasol and all her bags, Dione hurried back to the counter, buying several more ties.
"Please wrap all three colors of the polka-dot bow ties, and all the regimental stripe ones as well."
Wearing her usual sweet smile again, Dione led the way, saying she wanted to stop by the bookstore.
"Colphos gets new releases so late! You have no idea how long I've been waiting for The Rediscovered Novantes and the sequel to Hills of the Storm! Aaaah!"
While Dione happily piled up novels, Cleio slipped out through the back door and headed to the main branch of Plata Bank located just behind the store.
Even as Cleio withdrew the 800,000 dinars, Dione remained in the aisles, grinning blissfully among the new arrivals.
Back at the mansion, they shared a modest but pleasant dinner and gathered in the parlor afterward.
The cat who only behaved politely toward women lifted his chin obediently while Dione tied the red bow around his neck.
"So cuuute—!"
Hugging the cat—nearly as big as her torso—Dione buried her face in Behemoth's soft belly. The sight of the huge cat wearing a red tie wasn't uncute, but Cleio couldn't understand her level of excitement. He just kept yawning.
"Meooow—(Yes, bow before this magnificent being.)"
'Right. If Dione could actually understand Behemoth, she'd never think he was cute.'
Cleio's room was the last bedroom on the second floor—a convenient spot, with few people around to notice him leaving.
Behemoth, having downed both bottles of the Bishop's Tower wine, was sprawled out, purring contentedly in drunken bliss.
Cleio gently stroked the sleeping cat's head and straightened the red ribbon tied around his thick neck.
'Thanks for everything, buddy.'
Before returning to his room, he'd called for the youngest maid—one who might actually believe his words.
He told her that the cat could drink alcohol, so whenever it came scratching at the cellar door, she should give it whatever it wanted. Then he slipped her a thousand dinars.
Without turning on the lights, Cleio divided the 1.2 million dinars in hundred-dinar notes between his jacket and the subspace pouch the bank had provided.
For someone born with the heart of a commoner, it was a terrifying amount of cash, but checks could be traced, so he had no choice.
'At least this subspace pouch turned out useful.'
Despite containing the equivalent of 1.2 billion won in cash, the magical bag swallowed it effortlessly—a "thank-you gift" from the bank for future use.
'Well, thanks for that, but I'm never doing business with Plata Bank again. I'm not touching anything under Gideon's influence.'
He changed into plain travel clothes and put on his most worn-out shoes. Then, gripping the wall ornaments for balance, he carefully climbed down from the terrace.
No one chased after him. Leaving the unlit mansion behind, Cleio cheered inwardly.
'Life really makes you do all sorts of things. Everyone, take care. Let's never meet again.'
Just like in a spy movie, he caught the first train that departed—didn't matter where it went—and at the next station, switched to one going in the opposite direction.
The second-class car of the night train was noisy and dim. Cigarette embers glowed in the dark. Amid the smell of alcohol, a drunk's snoring blended with the rhythmic clatter of the rails.
For the first time, it truly felt like he'd come to a completely new world. There was an emptiness, but also a strange sense of relief.
Staring at the city lights receding into the distance, Cleio slowly drifted off to sleep.