Chapter 2: The fat aristocrat weeps alone
Arzo the butler handed him a bit of pocket money and a bag full of clothes, but considering the noble standard of living, it was not enough.
Being given only a small amount of money and being forced out, it was almost like being told to go and die in the labyrinth.
Mitrof knew it well, and so did the servants.
“Young master, this is from the servants.
Please take care and stay safe.”
With those words, Arzo gave him money the servants had collected out of their own pockets.
The servants’ salaries were not high at all.
Everyone should be short on funds.
Mitrof knew that.
The money collected for him by the servants was precious.
Mitrof said his goodbyes to everyone and left the house.
From today on, Mitrof was no longer a noble’s child; he was just Mitrof.
All he had with him was a bag of clothes, enough money to last for a few days, and a rapier sent by his fencing instructor to weather the rain and wind.
He had to keep on living.
He had to eat.
And for that, he needed money.
So he had to work.
If he was going to work, and didn’t know how to work like a commoner, there was only one choice: the Labyrinth.
Mitrof nodded and made his way to the Labyrinth, breathing heavily.
On the way, he got hungry and ate three servings of set meals at the cafeteria.
The food had a strong salty taste, perhaps for the hardworking laborers who sweated over their work.
It wasn’t bad.
He paid for it with the contributions from the servants.
He went to the Labyrinth guild and completed the registration easily with just a signature.
Mitrof took the training for Labyrinth exploration and the day ended with dusk.
He was referred to a cheap inn that was partnered with the Labyrinth guild.
The room was small with only a cheap bed and chair.
Mitrof put his bag on the chair and leaned his sword against it before sitting on the bed.
From the thin walls, he could hear coarse male voices and a woman’s moaning.
The bed’s cloth was rough, worn out, and yellowed.
It was harder to find a white area on it.
Mitrof was raised as a noble, but he often heard about the lives of commoners from his caretaker, an old woman who served as his wet nurse.
She taught him about budgeting, the lifestyle of the commoners… He thought of it as nothing more than fairy tales, but now he sees it as something practical.
He spread out his money on the bed and calculated the remaining amount.
He nodded in agreement, took out his meal from his bag.
It was something he bought from a street vendor on the way to his lodging.
A large round bread, grilled chicken with sauce, an assortment of fruits.
In addition, wine in a thin pottery vessel.
He broke the bread with his knife and put the chicken inside.
When he bit into it, the meat was tough and had a strong, unpleasant taste.
The sauce was spicy to mask the unpleasant taste, but it had a stimulating effect that stung his nose.
“It’s not very good.”
He nodded in agreement.
He had expected as much.
He needs to get used to this taste.
But this strong spice and excessive stench is not good.
He opened the bread, scraped off the dark red sauce with his knife, and picked out a fragrant citrus fruit from the cut fruits.
He squeezed the juice and sprinkled it on top.
He took another bite.
The refreshing acidity improved the taste somewhat.
He couldn’t complain anymore.
With no table to eat from, Mitrof sat on a shoddy bed, grabbing food with both hands.
He wiped a sauce, which was smeared on his mouth, with his thumb.
Unable to find anything to clean it off, he hesitated for a moment before licking it off with his tongue.
The voice of a woman in the next room continued, and the walls rumbled with “gon, gon” sounds.
While nibbling on fruit that had no sweetness, only sourness, Mitrof thought about what to do starting from tomorrow.
Yes, he might die.
The moment he thought that, the sour taste in his mouth changed into a sharp reality.
His life of idleness as a nobleman was over.
Placed as his older brother’s replacement, Mitrof was finally abandoned just like an apple core.
Nothing more than that.
While chewing on the fruit, Mitrof cried at its overwhelming sourness.
Ugu, ugu, buhi, fugo.
Tears were flowing endlessly, but he continued to eat the fruit.
As long as his older brother existed, he knew that his life had no future.
As the third son of the poor Count family, he had no purpose.
Some went out on journeys or became peasants somewhere.
He knew this day would come eventually.
All he could do was eat.
Only while eating did he feel satisfied.
Now, the taste of reality is sour.
No one to rely on.
He was alone, and he might die tomorrow.
Sobs leaked through gritted teeth.
The wall was hit with a thud.
“Hey, shut up! Are you a pig or something?!”
Despite the muffled angry voice, Mitrof cried.
He had decided to cry just for today.
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