Grandfather Caesar's speech began to dissolve into incoherent ramblings, as if he were speaking in some ancient, undecipherable tongue. I went to the kitchen to prepare some herbal tea with whatever ingredients we had—anything that might help bring him back to his senses. When I returned and placed the cup before him alongside the teapot, I quietly slipped out, pretending to close the door behind me.
The warmth vanished from Caesar's face the moment he took a sip.
"This boy is talented, isn't he, Bianca?"
From the shadows emerged a woman who, at first glance, seemed far too youthful to be elderly—unless one noticed her silver hair, her skin polished and smooth like crimson stone, and those piercing blue eyes that bore the weight of a lifetime beneath a graceful, ageless mask. She was the wife of the old man—he of the round belly and snow-white beard
.
With a teasing smile, she said:
"Look at you… an old man guzzling a whole pot of tea, too shy to ask your grandson for a single cup."
Caesar jerked upright, clearly offended.
"You wound me! I was simply telling the boy about his origins—while warning him of alcohol's evils. That's my role! But you... the way you stared at the teapot in my hands frightened me more than the snakes I encountered in the deserts' pyramids!"
Without hesitation, Bianca lunged at Caesar's face with a swift kick. But despite his saggy frame, he moved with unexpected agility, evading her blow. She kept striking at his head and shoulder, especially the arm holding the teapot. Even with his handicap, he managed to deflect her attacks before finally surrendering:
"Alright, alright—I'll share the tea."
Bianca chuckled, and Caesar smiled softly at her feigned cruelty. A quiet moment settled between them.
After a pause, Bianca said:
"The boy is gifted—brilliant even. But his lack of experience is holding him back. Why do you and your foolish son refuse to treat him?"
Caesar sighed, pondering his son's choices, then replied with gentleness:
"Bianca, my dear… when my son chose to raise Sartor, I didn't understand his reasoning—and I still don't. But one thing is clear: unleashing the boy into the world right now would be a mistake. The Cage will not tolerate him. They'll destroy him before he can be reborn."
Bianca frowned. Her husband's philosophical tone always gave her a headache. But she would not back down—especially when it came to her grandson, whom she loved as if he were her own child.
"I've had enough of your riddles," she snapped. "Your son, and my poor little one, are suffering! He clutches books with his only good hand and drags himself to the library! I don't care what you're scheming, but I suggest you treat him before his twelfth birthday… or I swear, I will erupt!"
With that, Bianca stormed out of the library, slamming the door behind her. Caesar let out a tired chuckle and turned his thoughts to the call he'd have to make—to speak with his son about a treatment plan for Sartor. He didn't want to find out what Bianca might do if ignored. Not even the strongest man alive would dare provoke the Tigress.
As he considered how to heal the boy without exposing him to the outside world's dangers, his gaze landed on a samurai armor mounted on the wall. It held a long and storied past. And in that moment, an idea struck him like a flash of lightning.
A plan that could solve three problems at once: treat the boy, appease the Tigress, and draw closer to his grandson—without jeopardizing his corrupt son's grand design.
The old fox grinned like a man who had just won a war.
"Maybe I am a genius after all."
Without wasting a moment, Caesar hurried to his desk. As soon as he sat down to rest, the bell rang. Yasmin entered moments later, her expression grim.
"Sir," she said sharply, "is there an emergency so dire that you would interrupt my time with young Master Sartor?"
Caesar sighed inwardly.
Why am I always surrounded by terrifying women?
Still, he answered, "I am the head of this household, and you are the head maid. Isn't it your duty to respond when I summon you?"
Yasmin tilted her head in disbelief, as though the old man had just claimed the sun rose in the west.
Caesar let it pass and continued, "I called you to adjust Sartor's diet."
Yasmin's glare could have slain a lesser man. She looked like a warrior fresh from a battlefield strewn with corpses and rivers of blood. Caesar ignored the murderous aura and went on:
"A katana master from the East will be arriving soon. He's also trained in medicine. He'll be staying in one of the outer guest rooms. He'll be Sartor's teacher for the next five years. That is all."
He folded his hands over the desk—a clear sign that the conversation was over. Yasmin left silently to make the necessary arrangements. Once she was gone, Caesar closed the door, ready to make the long-awaited call to his son and finalize the plan.
When the call ended, exhaustion overtook him, and he rose, heading to bed.