episode_0047

47. It’s Unfair, So Unfair

Do you know the 10,000-hour rule?

It was a concept written in a 1993 paper by Professor Anders Ericsson of Florida State University.

While innate talent is important, effort is just as indispensable.

And that claim was absolutely correct.

Because I was experiencing the 10,000-hour rule firsthand with my own body.

*”What fine penmanship~.”*

Daily creative writing poured onto resignation letters.

Even if I hadn’t yet reached 10,000 hours, my skills improved day by day.

At first, I couldn’t go beyond *”I hereby resign,”* but before I knew it, my heart had seeped into the words.

Though years long I served with devotion, Clouds drift away, the moon wanes untold. Through mountain winds, my will now woven, I bow to shed these garments old.

Once my heart burned with loyalty true, But feeble hands no more can strive. A frail lamp flickers in winds so cruel, May new light shine—let hope revive.

‘Tis not ingratitude that bids me part, But crumbling beams can hold no walls. With reverence bowed, I plead my heart: Recall your grace—my soul now falls.

*”To windswept hills I shall retire, to cleanse my heart in streams so clear.”*

Reading it again, tears welled up from the sorrow and heartbreak.

Maybe I wasn’t cut out for the sciences but had a talent for the humanities instead?

As I recited this mournful poem with such emotion in my heart, Brook stared at me with an incredulous expression and scolded me.

*”Hey, Mr. K, cut the crap and just write the damn paperwork.”*

*”Ugh… sob…”*

Brook playfully kicked my backside while urging me to get back to work.

Piano orders were flooding in from everywhere, leaving no time to rest.

Brook hammered away at wires so fast her hands were a blur, churning out uniform lengths, while Eightree sweated profusely crafting piano cases and frames.

Two petite girls, barely 145 cm tall, working tirelessly without pause.

The sight filled me with grief at such an unreasonable labor scene.

*”This is wretched… Young girls deprived of basic rights, forced to toil without rest in this sweltering workshop…!”*

*”We’re not young, dumbass… We’re adults, brat…”*

*”Plus, we literally just had a snack break and gossip session half an hour ago…”*

The two dwarves stared at me with exasperation.

But does the victim’s opinion or the truth even matter?

The only law that counts is the public’s gaze—along with opportunistic lawmakers posing for photos while declaring *them* the victims.

*”I can no longer stand idly by before such tyranny! I shall stake my very life to demand reform!”*

*”What kind of psycho… Did this guy eat something bad today?”*

*”Sounds like he’s fishing for excuses—no, justifications—to quit.”*

*”Nah, this is just his usual self.”*

With noble resolve to soothe the girls’ sorrow and rage, I strode out of the workshop.

Grace Mansion.

Thanks to Erica’s thoughtful arrangement—wanting personally to supervise me closely—a workshop had been set up inside the mansion.

Especially after recruiting skilled blacksmiths like Brook and Eightree, an even larger forge was installed indoors.

This meant I could reach Erica’s office after just a short walk.

*”Countess!”*

*”Is it that time already?”*

I barged in without knocking, but Erica—already accustomed to my rudeness—merely set down the document she’d been writing, neatly tapped the stack against the table, and looked up.

*”So, what’s the resignation letter about this time?”*

*”It’s written with my sincerest feelings.”*

Having processed so many, Erica now handled them with ease.

Honestly, it felt less like submitting a resignation and more like pitching a project to a CEO for evaluation.

At any rate, I presented it to her with dignified posture.

Erica picked up the neatly folded letter and began skimming through it.

*”…Hoh?”*

*”Does it meet your expectations?”*

I puffed out my muscular chest with pride.

Even I could tell this time it was a masterpiece of penmanship.

Yet Erica smirked in amusement before tearing it to shreds with her critique.

*”First, the duration of your service under me is barely three months. So you tweaked reality for poetic rhythm in the opening lines.*

*A poem’s foremost duty is to convey emotion and evoke empathy—but stretching the truth just makes it seem exaggerated.*

*Also…”*

As expected of a genius.

My half-baked attempt, far from 10,000 hours of practice, was utterly demolished by Erica’s critique—along with my confidence.

After 20 excruciating minutes of brutal rebuttals, I slumped my shoulders.

Seeing my sullen expression, Erica offered a small consolation.

*”Still, your learning speed is remarkable. I don’t know how far you’ll grow, but your progress is astonishing.”*

*”Really?”*

*”Of course.”*

Delighted, I perked up—prompting Erica to chuckle at how adorable I was.

Then, with effortless nonchalance, she slid open a drawer beneath the table, stuffed my resignation into the overflowing pile inside, and flashed me a sly smile.

*”You know what I’m going to say now, right?”*

*”‘I can’t approve your resignation’?”*

*”Would I give you such predictable lines this time?”*

Her words stunned me.

Wait—was she seriously going to approve it?

*”Though flawed, this poem clearly reflects heart and effort poured in.”*

*”Thank you!”*

*”Which means you have too much free time—so I’ll kindly give you more work.”*

Yeah, at this point, I’m too numb to even cry.

Currently, having built the chicken coop, we’d finished marketing the pianos as luxury items and begun exports.

Frankly, Brook and Eightree were the ones sweating over it while I just checked functionality.

*”Transcribe all the inventions you’ve made so far into schematics on parchment.*

*I’ll preserve them in a secure archive—so document each principle and method meticulously.*

*Note: Each invention requires about 30 pages of subdivided, detailed explanation.”*

*”Wait—what does my earnest resignation letter have to do with paperwork duty?”*

*”The crime of daring to ask me to reduce your workload.”*

Defeated again, I trudged back to the mansion’s workshop in despair.

Though this time, I returned with a slightly brighter face and announced:

*”Alright, starting today—documentation begins! Get ready.”*

Well, at least I’m not working alone.

Since I now have quasi-graduate-student slaves—no, assistants—like Brook and Eightree, it’s manageable.

That’s why I didn’t sink into despair like before.

The two dwarves glared at me with half-lidded eyes.

*”Are you mentally deficient?”*

*”Huh?”*

*”Like… I can help draft schematics, and Eightree can explain technical details, but…*

*We don’t grasp the deeper principles, so you’d have to write most of it yourself… Right?”*

*”Oh.”*

Wait, no—?

Aren’t graduate students supposed to research, submit drafts, get rejected, whine, and eventually finish the damn thing themselves?

Confused, I challenged them:

*”B-But… isn’t this the kind of thing underlings handle when ordered?*

*Department heads or professors delegate all this to grad students… right?? Huh?!”*

*”No clue what you’re on about, but blindly obeying orders is just slavery.”*

*”However desperate we are for success, we won’t endure such inhumane treatment…”*

Even medieval folks would scoff at grad student standards.

Why had I been subjected to that life?

It’s so unfair.

────────────────────

A man opens his eyes on a sickbed.

Built like a wrestler—muscle layered with fat—his imposing frame exuded masculinity through his thick beard and sheer bulk, radiating raw strength.

Yet crimson blood stained his clothes, seeping from wounds across his body.

*”It’s unfair…”*

Balthazar Blackthorn.

Five weeks prior.

After meeting new acquaintances and attending a ball, he retired to his lodgings and slept.

But chaos erupted outside—imperial soldiers stormed in, arresting him without explanation.

*‘Confess willingly to the charge of attempting to assassinate the Emperor.’*

Seeing as he’d done no such thing, he denied it—and brutal torture followed.

For three weeks, he endured, protesting his innocence—until finally released on probation.

But that wasn’t all.

The priest who’d raised him like a son since childhood—

Upon hearing of Balthazar’s injuries, he rushed from Zheheitan to heal him.

Yet just for aiding an alleged regicide, the priest was beaten to death by soldiers.

Unfair. Infuriatingly unfair.

But what could he do?

His enemy was the imperial family—the rulers of the empire.

Overwhelmed by helpless fury, he rose—only to find a woman watching him.

A beautiful woman peeling an apple with a knife—instilling instinctive dread in his tortured psyche.

Noticing his awake state, her crescent-moon eyes curved into a smile as she spoke.

*”Awake, are we?”*

*”Who are you?”*

Her hands worked deftly on the apple while wearing scandalously little fabric—as though intentionally seductive.

Noticing his lingering gaze, she smirked and offered an apple slice.

Holding the slice to his lips with the knife like a fork, she made her proposal—

One both provocative and sweet.

*”Does who I am truly matter?”*

*”What…?”*

*”Or is your survival more important?”*

She chuckled before delivering the words—

A wildly tempting proposition.

*”Let’s overthrow the imperial family, shall we?”*

Balthazar bit into the offered apple slice.