Chapter 125

Blake left the Seymour mansion, taking all of his belongings.

For the first few days, nothing seemed wrong. But soon, Grace’s madness grew worse, and the atmosphere changed instantly.

The longtime servants—those who had worked in the mansion since before Grace’s marriage—quit all at once. They said they could no longer deal with her.

After that, the hired day workers also left. Daily wages couldn’t be paid anymore.

The butler and head maid remained for a while, but they also struggled. With no money left, they couldn’t even pay the few servants still there. When they asked the Marquis of Seymour, he only grew angry, saying he shouldn’t have to deal with such “petty matters.”

But to the servants, wages were not petty—they were life itself.

The truth was, the staff knew the Seymour family’s situation better than the Marquis himself. Their businesses were collapsing one by one. Even those who had waited patiently out of loyalty finally gave up, because the Marquis did nothing to fix the problem.

In the end, the butler and head maid secretly sold household items just to pay wages.

When the Marquis found out, he raged, accusing them of theft—and grew even angrier when he realized they had only used the money for servant pay. Both the butler and head maid resigned that very day and left.

Only then did the Marquis panic.

He wasn’t alone—he had his unstable daughter. Grace, unless drugged into sleep, became violent. She screamed, threw anything she could grab, demanding her curse be lifted, her son returned, Florence torn to pieces.

The Marquis tried desperately to calm her, but nothing worked.

His magic still wouldn’t return.

Blake never answered his calls.

Out of food and unable to let his daughter starve, the Marquis finally sold a small piece of land at a ridiculous price to an acquaintance. He couldn’t sell the mansion—it was already held as collateral by the bank.

Even then, the buyer acted like he was doing the Marquis a favor. The pride of a man once towering above others was now trampled into the dirt.

Blake, knowing full well how desperate his sister and father had become, still ignored them completely.

“How did it come to this…?”

Only months ago, the Seymour family had been wealthy and powerful. They had produced generations of royal magicians—even a 7th-class mage once. Their investments in magical goods had been stable and profitable. They held the king’s trust, enjoyed great influence and reputation.

Such a house shouldn’t have collapsed from mere whispers about Florence.

But everything, like a sandcastle at the shore, had been swept away by a single wave.

Grace, who had once seemed happy in her marriage, with a son in her arms, had been cast out and gone mad in her parents’ home. And money—money had vanished faster than the Marquis could believe.

He still owned land, buildings, even the mansion. So why did he have no money in his hands?

‘Was it a mistake to give most of the inheritance to Blake ahead of time? Was it wrong to follow Enoch Hains’ advice and invest in risky ventures? Or was it…?’

A memory echoed:

“Honestly, Grace looks more like a monster than Florence.”
“If you let her be, you’ll regret it later.”

Had he made her into a monster by raising her wrong?

Grace had been special since childhood—talented, clever, sharp, ambitious. Surely such a cute child could not have been bad. Monica, her late mother, had loved her deeply, always saying Grace resembled her father’s features.

But now, unless drugged, Grace would scream endlessly. She always had to get what she wanted, always had to do what she desired—and now she couldn’t see reality at all.

The Marquis sighed, watching his sleeping daughter.

He could not keep doing this. A grown daughter was not like a child he could bathe or dress. Even when she was little, he had left childcare to the servants. Now, with none left, her unwashed body stank, her clothes soiled. He could feed her medicine, but he couldn’t care for her properly without magic.

Hopelessness weighed on him.

There was no way to break the curse. He had no money to hire shamans or healers.

For the first time, he realized—

“To have no money at all… is terrifying.”

He remembered how he once dismissed Florence’s mistreatment as “nothing serious.” Just a maid. Easily replaced. But now, without servants, he couldn’t even cook, clean, or fetch water. The life of nobles rested in the hands of such “replaceable” people.

And now, he feared—would he have to live like this for decades? With a cursed, insane daughter by his side?

A chill ran down his spine.

Perhaps if he went to Blake…

But Blake had said clearly:

“If you want to continue the Seymour line, never contact me again. I won’t share in your curse.”

The Marquis was already exhausted. His much-praised “fatherly love” had collapsed in mere days of caregiving. Truthfully, he only wanted to escape.

He realized his devotion to his children had only ever been words. Easy promises when life was comfortable. He never had the resolve to dirty his hands for them.

Then another thought came—

‘Maybe that foolish woman who once possessed Florence’s body… she might help me. If I beg with tears, she’ll pity me. If I had only been kinder when she visited with Linus… but still, she’ll forgive easily if I smile.’

With that delusion, the Marquis dressed simply and walked toward the Baldwin estate. He couldn’t teleport—magic was gone. The horses had long been sold, the stablehands dismissed. He cursed Florence with every step.

When he arrived, he found the Baldwin gates wide open.

He grabbed a man hurrying out.

“What happened here?”

“L-let me go!”

“I asked what happened!”

“You crazy old man! Let go!”

At first, the servant flinched at his noble tone, but once he saw the Marquis’s ragged appearance, he grew bold and shoved him away.

“Something was bound to happen! That man was mad for women, of course it ended in disaster. Lindquist pulled out, the wife ran away, and the rest are crippled. No one left here will ever get paid! If you came for money, take what you can steal. No one’s inside!”

Then he walked off without looking back.

The Marquis trembled with outrage. How could a servant abandon his master so easily? Peasants had no sense of loyalty or honor—only numbers, only money.

But he had no choice.

‘Without medicine, I can’t handle Grace. Without servants, I can’t survive.’

And then he thought:

“It’s Florence’s fault. She stole the Seymour heirloom!”

Yes. He would reclaim its value. It wasn’t theft if he only took back what was rightfully his.

Like a man possessed, the Marquis entered the Baldwin mansion. He knew the layout from his visits after Florence’s marriage. He headed straight to the study. Linus kept valuables there—Florence had told him once.

He rummaged through drawers, taking keys for the safe, panting heavily.

“This isn’t theft. I’m only reclaiming what’s mine. Not a crime. Not shameful. It’s rightful—”

“Marquis Seymour?”

It was the young Lord Lindquist.