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Chapter 117 : Chapter 117
Chapter 117. The Party A’s Right of Interpretation
“Stop right there!”
Logaris West suddenly sat upright, crossing his arms in front of his chest in a large X.
“I handle recruitment, I handle agriculture, I handle the military, and now even this kind of secret agent work is being dumped on me? Is that not what Esmeralda and her people are supposed to do?!”
“And I was the one who built the industrial system, and I was the one who brought in Cicero! Sylvia, do you really think I am some kind of puppet that can run nonstop twenty-four hours a day just by being refilled with mana?!”
Sylvia looked at his exasperated expression and, realizing that Logaris truly had been overloaded with work, felt a trace of guilt.
“I would like to send Esmeralda too, but she really cannot spare the manpower right now,” Sylvia said with a perfectly straight face, delivering a rather shameless excuse.
“Those old nobles may have been frightened by the gallows on the surface, but their schemes have never stopped in secret. To prevent them from making desperate moves, the main force of the Shadow Guard must monitor every one of them around the clock.”
At this point, Sylvia’s voice lowered, becoming more serious. “And… that white powder we found in Herman’s house last time—half of our remaining elite forces have already been deployed to trace its source. So manpower is indeed tight lately.”
The reasoning was logical and even carried a sense of urgency. It was practically flawless.
“Fine… I will admit you have a point.” Logaris slumped back into his chair, looking as if he had a headache. “So I am just a brick—moved wherever I am needed.”
Sylvia watched his defeated expression and hid the slight upward curl of her lips behind a sip of tea.
The reasons were, of course, true—but they were not the whole truth.
Staying in this cold manor all day, facing endless paperwork and political scheming, would wear down even a machine.
If she could use the excuse of “traveling incognito” to shake off those annoying attendants and third wheels, and have only the two of them walking through the outside world…
Even if the destination was a dragon’s den or a tiger’s lair, it would be far more interesting than staying behind this desk.
Such a rare chance to be alone—how could she possibly let those unromantic Shadow Guards interfere?
Of course, Sylvia would never admit such a “true intention” that carried a hint of girlish sentiment.
“That concludes today’s meeting. Everyone, return to your duties.” Sylvia set down her teacup and waved her hand, her expression returning to its usual cold professionalism.
The wind and snow outside gradually subsided.
The night in the Northern Territory remained long, but within this brightly lit Governor’s Residence, two young helmsmen were forcibly dragging a battered ship toward an unknown dawn.
…
The next day, in the western district of the city, melodious harp music drifted from a small standalone building.
Iowen was sitting by the fireplace with one leg crossed over the other, idly plucking at a harp of unknown origin while humming an unfamiliar elven tune. He looked less like a hired worker and more like a nobleman on vacation.
There was no knock—only a loud BANG as the door was shoved open.
A gust of cold wind carrying snow swept inside, pressing the flames in the fireplace low.
Iowen’s hand trembled in shock, nearly snapping a string. He turned around to see Logaris standing at the doorway, dressed in a black coat, frost clinging to his glasses, his expression even gloomier than the weather outside.
“What time is it already?”
Logaris shook the snow off his coat, strode inside, and shut the door behind him. “And you are still singing? Are you here to hold a concert?”
Iowen set down the harp and elegantly smoothed his dark green hair.
“Professor, please mind your wording. I am a ‘technical consultant,’ not your laborer. According to the contract, I have the right to freely allocate my rest time. Besides, artistic creation is essential for maintaining inspiration…”
“Cut the nonsense.”
Logaris slammed a document onto the table—it was the Northern Territory Agricultural Improvement Plan.
“Get dressed. You are coming with me to the fields.”
“Where?” Iowen’s eyes widened as if he had heard something absurd. “The fields? You mean those muddy farmlands that even smell like… certain excretions?”
“Where else? The palace?” Logaris sat down on the sofa and casually poured himself a glass of water. “The yield of Stoneheart Potatoes in the Northern Territory is too low, and the texture is like chewing wood. I want you to improve them. The requirement is simple—double the yield and make them at least edible.”
“I am not going!”
Iowen jumped to his feet, clutching his harp as he took two steps back, his expression resolute.
“I am a natural elf! A noble bloodline of the royal court! My hands are meant for playing strings and writing poetry, not digging in the dirt! This is a blasphemy against art! A trampling of elven dignity!”
The more he spoke, the more emotional he became, even preparing to compose an impromptu poem to express his indignation.
Logaris quietly watched his performance. When he finally finished shouting, Logaris slowly pulled out their signed contract.
“Turn to page fourteen, clause seven.”
Iowen froze for a moment, then leaned in suspiciously.
It was a line of tiny text written in the corner—so small that it could easily be mistaken for a smudge.
[Clause 7: Under special circumstances, Party B may not refuse any reasonable work requests made by Party A for any reason. Note: The final right of interpretation for ‘special circumstances’ and ‘reasonable’ belongs solely to Party A.]
Iowen’s face turned green.
Literally green—the same shade as his hair.
“Th-this is fraud! This is a tyrannical clause!” Iowen pointed at the line, his finger trembling. “What kind of interpretation right is this? Does this mean even if you tell me to clean toilets, as long as you think it is reasonable, I have to do it?”
“In theory, yes.”
Logaris adjusted his glasses, a sharp glint flashing behind the lenses. “But I am a reasonable person. If you refuse, that counts as a breach of contract. And I do not need to explain the consequences of that, do I?”
Iowen stiffened, unable to say a word for a long time. In the end, he gave in.
“Of course,” Logaris suddenly changed his tone, a devilish smile appearing on his previously cold face, “I am not the kind of boss who only exploits employees. If you handle this well, I will build you a house.”
“A house?” Iowen looked at him warily. “I do not lack a place to live.”
“A constant-temperature structure, entirely made of glass, with light-guiding spellwork active twenty-four hours a day.” Logaris gestured a large square with his hands. “Even if blades fall from the sky outside, it will feel like spring inside. I will also have the best seeds and soil transported from the south to build you a private garden.”
Gulp.
The sound of Iowen swallowing was especially loud in the quiet room.
For an elf who longed for greenery, owning a glass greenhouse that felt like spring all year round in this barren frozen land…
His earlier “unyielding resolve” vanished without a trace.
“Well…” Iowen adjusted his collar, putting on a professional expression. “I do have some knowledge of agriculture. After all, Mother Nature does not distinguish between status. When do we depart?”