Lord: Starting with Biological Modification

The Judge’s flustered figure vanished beyond the door.

The great gates of Count Leman’s mansion swung shut with a CLANG, and the bolt was thrown.

Inside the study.

The curtains were drawn again, cutting off all lines of sight from the outside world.

Count Leman stood before the window, his back to the door. He held a glass of wine in his hand but had no desire to take a sip.

He looked out at the standoff between the mansion’s guards and the Church’s observers.

Farther in the distance, Church Priests were setting up some kind of array to block magical communication, its faint silver light sketching a magical cage in the air.

Just then, an intelligence officer hurried over, his footsteps stopping at the door.

"Speak. What’s the situation?"

The intelligence officer bowed.

"My lord, the Church’s timing on this is extremely devious."

"Several of our key allies are not in the Royal Capital right now. Marquis Connelly of the Northern Territory is away inspecting his domain, and the admiral of the West Sea Fleet is at sea and has yet to return."

"The preliminary list for the jury... is extremely unfavorable for us."

Velin’s brow twitched slightly.

These matters were only vague impressions in the original owner’s memory; he didn’t understand them well.

To grasp the full picture as quickly as possible, he interrupted the intelligence officer’s report.

"What is the Duchy’s judicial process for hereditary nobles?"

The intelligence officer immediately explained, "Reporting to Young Master Velin, the trial will be judged by a jury of twelve nobles of a rank equal to or higher than the Count’s. The judge will be a permanent member of the Noble Council."

Count Leman considered this for a moment. "Who is on the preliminary jury?"

"The situation is dire. Of the fifty people on the preliminary list, twenty have close ties with the Empire and the Church, and five are from families whose businesses were crushed by our merchant association last year."

"Earl Philip of the Flower Province is an ally, but last month the Church pinned a charge of ’improper conduct’ on his son. He’s too busy dealing with his own problems now and would never dare to stick his neck out for us."

At this, Count Leman sneered. He turned around and slammed his wine glass onto the table, splashing the liquid out.

"Hmph. The Church has timed this perfectly. They mean to utterly destroy me." He stared at the intelligence officer. "Give me the worst-case scenario."

The intelligence officer’s head lowered even further. "If the charges stick, you will be excommunicated, and your son will be forced to inherit the title."

Count Leman’s breathing didn’t change in the slightest.

But Velin noticed that the fingers tapping on the tabletop paused for half a second.

Forcing his son to inherit the title.

This might not be unacceptable to Count Leman. It would just mean losing a source of income and enjoying an early retirement.

But for Velin, it was a different story.

Velin would not let that cousin of his, Leonard, inherit the title—not even if there was only a one-in-ten-thousand chance of it happening!

His mind began to race.

He didn’t have many cards to play.

The Judicial Court’s sudden raid had disrupted his original plans.

Just thirty-odd major and minor nobles couldn’t stir up much of a storm.

The key to breaking this deadlock lay with the twelve as-yet-undecided members of the jury.

How could he influence their judgment? Bribery was an option, but time was too short, the risk was too great, and it would be easy to leave behind evidence. Threaten them with force? That would be tantamount to declaring war on the entire nobility.

His fingers unconsciously traced circles on the armrest.

’Unless... I can find a common ground that transcends political stances and family feuds!’

...

The news that Count Leman was under house arrest and would face trial by a noble court in three days spread rapidly through the upper circles of Zelheim, fanned by interested parties.

A sense of panic spread among the nobles who had previously attended the masquerade auction.

They were afraid of becoming the next Viscount Ferrier.

That afternoon, Lilia was accompanying the Marchioness to the famous "Royal Seal Satin" in the Royal Capital.

This tailor shop was a high-end couture boutique that catered exclusively to the great nobles.

Listening to the various rumors from outside, she was terribly anxious.

Her brother and uncle were trapped in the mansion, yet she could do nothing.

The Marchioness was standing before a massive full-length mirror while a handsome young male tailor knelt on one knee, measuring the hem of her skirt.

He held a soft tape measure, and his fingertips would occasionally brush "unintentionally" against the Marchioness’s delicate, smooth ankle.

A lazy smile played on the Marchioness’s lips. She puffed out her chest slightly, allowing the tight corset to accentuate her even more prominent curves.

"My dear Andy, your craftsmanship is always so reassuring."

Her voice was syrupy sweet, making Lilia’s skin crawl.

"However, I do believe the measurements you take by hand are a bit more accurate than those taken with a tape measure."

The young tailor’s cheeks flushed, his eyes glistening as they met the Marchioness’s gaze.

"Madam, you must be joking."

Lilia stood to the side, her cheeks burning as she watched the debauched scene before her.

She subconsciously averted her gaze, looking for an excuse to leave.

Just then, her gaze swept past the partially open door of the tailor shop.

A familiar figure flashed past and made a subtle gesture toward her.

’It’s Brother!’

Lilia’s heart leaped.

She curtsied to the Marchioness.

"Madam, please excuse me for a moment. I need to use the washroom."

After receiving permission, she quickly walked out of the tailor shop and turned into a nearby alley.

Velin was waiting for her in the shadows.

"Brother, how did you get out?"

Lilia kept her voice as low as possible, afraid of drawing attention.

Velin’s expression was calm.

"A noble family that has survived for over a hundred years is bound to have a few secret passages in their own mansion."

He didn’t waste any time. He took a folded piece of paper from his coat and pressed it into Lilia’s hand.

"This is what you need to do."

Lilia unfolded the note and read it quickly, a look of partial understanding on her face.

Velin lowered his voice.

"The Church has us by the throat."

"But they are mistaken. This was never just House Klein’s weak point—it’s the weak point of every noble."

"What you need to do is make those high-and-mighty lords understand that if they don’t stand up and help Uncle Leman today, tomorrow the Church’s butcher’s blade will fall on their own heads!"

"Remember, don’t embellish, and don’t add any of your own opinions. You just need to act like a naive, innocent girl who accidentally lets a few ’facts’ slip."

Understanding flashed in Lilia’s eyes, and she nodded firmly.

"I understand, Brother."

When she returned to the tailor shop, the door to the fitting room was tightly closed.

She could hear the Marchioness’s suppressed moans from within, along with the rhythmic rustling of fabric.

Lilia’s cheeks flushed again.

She stood at the door for a long time, only letting out a sigh of relief when the sounds from inside completely subsided.

After waiting a little longer, she composed her expression and pushed the door open to go inside.

The Marchioness was lounging on a sofa, sipping tea. Her face was flushed with satisfaction, her eyes practically dripping with charm.

Lilia found an opportunity to sit beside her and began to speak softly, her tone tinged with a hint of pity.

"Madam, have you heard? About Viscountess Ferrier..."

The Marchioness raised an eyebrow nonchalantly.

"Oh? That poor woman. What about her?"