industrial lord

Chapter 804 Heartbreak
The music and the lights were all romantic.

Worries and anxieties are irrelevant to the guests.

This is a stage for joy; radiate charm now and let passion soar.

In the dance floor, men and women are twirling joyfully.

Pavel couldn't remember how he managed to get through his conversation with Baron Boch.

The polite exchanges about local customs, the probing about grain smuggling, and the indirect inquiries about the military strength of the Duchy of Wessen all turned into buzzing background noise, swirling chaotically in his mind.

He simply nodded mechanically, occasionally forcing a smile befitting aristocratic etiquette and offering a few meaningless remarks; his wrist even trembled slightly when he raised his wine glass.

Olga remained by his side, her arm gently resting on his elbow, the warmth of her fingertips seeping through the fabric of his dress.

The temperature, which should have been warm, felt like a branding iron.

Every time she introduced someone to someone else, saying, "This is the pride of our Boiheim," every time she let out a silvery laugh, every time she exchanged a meaningful glance with Baron Boch—all these subtle movements were magnified infinitely in Pavel's perception.

As Pavel watched all this, he suddenly felt that the magnificent hall was slowly rotating, and he was standing at the center of the rotation.

“You don’t look well,” Olga whispered during a break in a dance, her lips almost touching his earlobe.

"Just a little tired." Pavel was surprised by the calmness in his own voice when he heard himself answer.

"Then let's go back early." Olga pulled him out of the dance floor, let go of his hand, and a glint of light he couldn't understand flashed in her blue eyes.

Is it a concern? Or an assessment?

"Get some rest, we'll talk another day."

These words were like a command. Pavel nodded, and by the time he realized what he had done, he had already fled the venue almost as if he were escaping, refusing the arranged carriage and walking alone into the winter streets of Boyheim.

The cold wind was like a knife.

The buildings lining the street cast long, distorted shadows under the streetlights.

The snow accumulated during the day was trampled into dirty slush, which shimmered faintly in the cracks of the stone path.

The city of Boyheim is asleep, or rather, it has never truly woken up.

What lies dormant behind those thick stone walls is a rhythm of life that has remained unchanged for centuries, an instinctive resistance to any change that is deeply ingrained in our bones.

Pavel loosened his bow tie and took a deep breath.

The cold air rushed into my lungs, bringing a stinging sensation, but also a sense of clarity.

The sweet aromas, perfumes, and greasy smells of the food in the banquet hall were all washed away at this moment.

He looked up and saw the stark white streetlights hanging at the top of the pole, as if the owner had opened a second-floor window and was looking down.

Pavel suddenly remembered an urban legend from the Duchy of Wessen.

Someone asked the Grand Duke of Wessen why the lampposts in the Duchy of Wessen extend outwards from the top, instead of having the lamp directly mounted on top of the pole like a torch.

Grand Duke Wessen replied that it was in preparation for hanging some people on it in the future.

Pavel shivered and rubbed his eyes, as if he could see Olga hanging from the street lamp in front of him, the cold wind blowing her skirt like a bewitching flower, her long, white legs as white as the snow on the roof, without a trace of life.

It was just a tattered piece of cloth that had blown in from who-knows-where.

Pavel recalled a night not long after he arrived in the Duchy of Wesen, when he came to the steel industrial area north of Wesenburg for a late-night snack. He saw that the area was not asleep even at night; the flames from the furnaces dyed the sky dark red, the low growls of the machinery sounded like the breathing of a giant beast, and the trains coming and going made the ground tremble.

At the late-night food stalls on the street, the workers, dressed in cheap blacksmith uniforms, hold skewers of grilled meat and vegetables in their dominant hand and ice-cold beer or soft drinks in their other hand. They talk about production volume, efficiency, technological innovation, the branch factory to be expanded next year, and the upcoming technology competition.

There was a light in their eyes, not the shimmering light reflected from the chandelier in the banquet hall, but a flame burning from their very souls.

Two images flashed alternately in his mind.

A feeling of warmth and familiarity, yet suffocating; a feeling of strangeness and noise, yet full of vitality.

He stood on the glacier between the two, the thin ice beneath his feet making a faint cracking sound.

The mansion's gate appeared at the edge of the field of vision. The stone building, constructed by their ancestors, looked particularly somber under the streetlights.

The pointed roofline pierced the night sky, the windows were pitch black, and only a lantern by the door swayed in the cold wind, casting an uncertain glow.

This is his home, the place where he was born and raised, and every stone is engraved with the history of his family.

But tonight, it looks more like a tomb—burying past glories and potential new life.

The old butler was waiting for him.

When the butler saw Pavel walking back alone, a hint of surprise flashed in the old man's cloudy eyes, but it was quickly replaced by obsequiousness.

"Young master, the hot water is ready."

"Thank you." Pavel took off his cloak and handed it to him. "You should go and rest too."

The butler asked, "Would you like some sleep-inducing drinks prepared? You look..."

“No need,” Pavel interrupted him, his tone harsher than expected.

He paused, then softened his voice: "I'm just tired."

As he climbed the spiral staircase, the wooden steps groaned beneath his feet.

This house is so old, every part of it seems to be telling a story of weariness.

The family portraits on the wall stared at him under the dim wall lamplight—those ancestors dressed in armor or fine clothes, their eyes empty, yet seemingly questioning: Where are you leading all that we have accumulated?
The fireplace in the bedroom is already lit.

The flames danced, casting shimmering shadows on the wall.

Pavel didn't call for a servant; instead, he poured himself a large glass of cold water and drank it all in one gulp.

The cool liquid slid down his throat, but it couldn't extinguish the burning anxiety in his chest.

He stood by the window for a long time.

Outside the window, the rooftops of Boiheim stretched out in a continuous, undulating pattern, covered with a thick blanket of snow.

Further away, the outline of the city wall was faintly visible in the night.

Pavel took off his tuxedo and tossed it onto a chair.

As the clothes slipped, a delicate silver collar clip fell onto the carpet with a soft thud.

Olga pinned it on him tonight, saying it was a "little gift."

He stared at the lapel clip for a few seconds, but ultimately didn't bend down to pick it up.

Lying in bed, the familiar wooden beams on the ceiling flickered in the firelight.

He closed his eyes, but the images flooded back: Olga's smiling lips, Baron Boch's scrutinizing gaze, Mr. Thomas's sharp eyes, Hojenproz discussing the profit margin of a duck, Metzger gathering a group of imaginative students to fantasize about how future wars should be fought...

He was like a pancake in a pan, flipping over and over on the bed.

It was the next morning when the church bells were heard. The sunlight struggled to penetrate the persistent clouds over Boiheim, casting a thin ray of light on the snow.

Pavel finished his breakfast quickly and sat in his study in a daze. Sometime in the morning, there was a knock on the door.

"Young Master?" It was a maid's cautious voice. "Miss Polina has come to visit."

Pavel sat up and rubbed his throbbing temples.

"Please ask her to wait in the living room, I'll be right down."

He spent more time washing up than usual.

The person in the mirror had dark circles under their eyes, stubble on their chin, and a vacant look in their eyes.

He splashed some cold water on his face in an attempt to make himself look less bad, but with little effect.

(End of this chapter)