Lord: Starting with Biological Modification

The boisterous energy of the banquet had been completely washed away by the night.

Velin had arranged for his guests to stay in the newly cleaned guest rooms on the second floor of the Lord’s Mansion.

Garris walked on the creaking wooden floors, his brow furrowed in clear displeasure.

The air smelled of damp wood and freshly applied tung oil. It wasn’t unpleasant, but it carried a lingering cheapness that constantly grated on his sensitive nerves.

When he opened the door to his room, his deputy was already inside, meticulously wiping the furnishings with a clean linen cloth.

Garris merely glanced at him without a word. He pulled a snow-white silk handkerchief from his own pocket and slowly, carefully, wiped over the very spot his deputy had just cleaned.

The action made the deputy, who was standing bowed to the side, freeze instantly. Cold sweat silently soaked through his undershirt.

Only after wiping the surface did Garris unhurriedly take off his coat and lay it neatly over the back of a chair.

He sat down, lightly stroking the ring on his right index finger. An invisible magic domain unfolded, and not a single sound from outside could penetrate the room.

"Speak."

The deputy hurriedly offered a piece of parchment, but Garris didn’t take it, merely gesturing with his eyes for him to continue.

"My lord, the intelligence on Velin Klein has been verified. He is from a branch family of the Klein Clan and came here at the beginning of the year with a development decree. We can’t find any record of the clan giving him significant funding. Although Count Leman has spoken of protecting him, his posture seems more like drawing a line to inform the world that this man is insignificant."

Garris lifted his cup. Staring at his blurry reflection, the corner of his mouth curled into a knowing arc as he interrupted, "A merchant association with money but no power, and a nobleman with land but no money... Heh, a match made in heaven."

Garris’s gaze was profound as he tried to piece together the whole picture.

’Using the commerce association’s money to support a down-and-out noble with limitless potential, to build a power base entirely their own in this barbaric land. This move is far more brilliant than those old fools who only know how to secure alliances through marriage and dependency.’

’That Miss Channing, hailed as the "Silver-Haired Witch," truly lives up to her reputation. She must be eager to stir up some waves at the card tables along the Gray Sea coast.’

"Are those old dogs from the Seven Ports Alliance still behaving?" Garris changed the subject.

The deputy’s face immediately filled with admiration. "Your foresight is godlike, my lord. As soon as we got the news, we sent people with the ’New Trade Agreement,’ promising that the Banky Commerce Association could ’assist’ them in getting better grain prices. Those old foxes said they needed to consider it, but didn’t they all obediently follow behind our convoy today?"

"Just hyenas. They’ll wag their tails for a bone," Garris commented disdainfully. "But it seems we have to give them this bone now. Caroline needs buyers. We have to make her feel that she has no choice but us."

"That thing called sea-salt potatoes, did you get any?"

The deputy took out a tuber wrapped in oilcloth from his pocket and presented it with both hands. "My lord, they guard them very strictly. I was only able to get a cooked one."

Garris gestured for him to keep it away.

"My lord," the deputy asked tentatively, "the yield of this thing is astounding..."

"Yield?" Garris chuckled, as if he’d just heard some peasant’s foolish talk. "That’s what farmers and fools fixate on. We look at the price. I ask you, Damon, one sack of wheat bran or ten sacks of those novel potatoes—which is more important to us?"

The deputy was taken aback and blurted out, "The sea-salt potatoes, of course. Their value is higher."

Garris fell silent, just looking at him.

Sweat broke out on the deputy’s forehead, and he hastily corrected himself. "The wheat bran! As long as we control the wheat bran and make it so those mud-legs can only afford bran, we can raise the price as we please!"

Garris remained silent. The gaze from behind his monocle was filled with disappointment and reproach.

"Damon," Garris’s voice grew cold, "you’re wrong. The most valuable thing is neither the wheat bran nor the sea-salt potatoes." He tapped the tabletop lightly with his fingertip. "It’s the sack that holds the grain. We are that sack. Only the sack has the right to decide what it holds, who it’s sold to, and who gets to starve. When will you understand this principle? When will you stop letting that cousin of yours walk all over you? I promised your father I would guide you."

He stood up and walked to the window. Pushing open the simple wooden casement, the night breeze, carrying the chill of the marshes, rustled his meticulously trimmed mustache.

"The sea-salt potatoes must be in our hands. But the rules must be set by us. Caroline wants to stir up some waves, so I will make her understand just who commands the winds on this sea."

Just then, a faint CLICK came from the door.

Garris’s words came to an abrupt halt, a flash of surprise in his eyes.

’I’ve already deployed my [Silence Domain]. How could there be a sound from outside?’

KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK.

A knock sounded at the door.

Garris regained his composure. ’Perhaps I was just being paranoid.’

He shot Damon a look.

The deputy stepped forward and opened the door. A maid with a beauty mark under her eye stood at the entrance holding a tray, which trembled slightly from her nervousness.

"My... My Lord Baron," she stammered, "I was... sent... to deliver this wine as an apology." Her voice was as faint as a mosquito’s buzz, almost carried away by the breeze.

Garris frowned in disgust. He had no interest in such an uncouth servant and waved his hand impatiently. "Put it down and get out."

The maid, as if granted amnesty, scrambled to place the wine bottle on the table.

But in her excessive nervousness, her hand slipped. The bottle bumped against the rim of a cup, making a soft clink.

She quickly steadied it and turned to leave, not noticing that the cork had been knocked loose.

"Wait!"

Garris’s icy voice rang out, and the maid’s body froze instantly.

Garris’s gaze fell upon the tabletop.

A drop of crimson wine was slowly seeping from the mouth of the bottle, inching its way toward his neatly folded silk coat.

"Deal with it."

There was no anger in Garris’s voice, only a deep, unyielding disgust.

He didn’t even bother to glance at the girl again, turning back to his deputy to continue, "Those old codgers from the Seven Ports Alliance, what other reactions did they have to our ’New Agreement’?"

"Ye... Yes!" The maid was on the verge of tears. She frantically used her sleeve to wipe up the spill.

Her movements were slow and clumsy, but they gave her the perfect excuse to hover over the table, straining her ears to catch every last word of the whispers that would normally be impossible to hear.

Once she had turned the corner and was completely out of sight of the guest room door, Xiaolan slammed back against the wall, drenched in cold sweat as if she had been pulled from water.

Her heart pounded like a drum, nearly leaping out of her throat.

Xiaolan remembered Lord Velin’s instructions: "He is arrogant, a clean freak, and despises commoners above all else. Use your timidity; it’s the best disguise. He won’t waste more than a second of his attention on you."

The Lord’s prediction was flawless.

She branded every last word into her mind.

’No, I have to... get back and report to the Lord immediately!’