Chapter 155: How Come Even the Descendants of the Nobles Can’t Escape the Torture of Morning Classes? …

Chapter 155: How Could Even the Descendants of Nobles Escape the Morning Class Torment?

How could even the descendants of nobles escape the morning class torment?

After being subjected to half an hour of *A Brief History of Imperial Art Development* and an hour of *The New Aesthetic Principles of Hymn Assemblies*, Meng Siyou rested his chin on his hand, his eyes dull and dazed, drowsily questioning his life choices.

During this time, he was repeatedly scolded and glared at by the tutor for improper posture and etiquette violations.

Waking up early for lectures was painful enough, but to endure one-on-one private tutoring—no slouching, no crossing legs, no spacing out—was unbearable.

With so many rules of etiquette, was this really a daily routine any normal person could endure?!

Meng Siyou stole a few glances at Ernos, who listened and took notes with practiced ease, her demeanor poised and composed. He couldn’t help but feel a twinge of admiration.

After the theoretical lessons, Ernos had two hours of painting practice.

With only the two of them left in the studio, Meng Siyou forced himself to stay alert, occasionally washing brushes or squeezing paint for the young lady, acting as a diligent assistant.

Seated before the easel, Ernos dipped her brush, letting vibrant colors spread across the paper. Soon, the lively strokes outlined the figure of a tall woman.

She meticulously painted the woman’s curly golden hair, the dazzling gemstone necklace at her throat, and the noblewoman’s lavish gown. The background was awash in vivid red, as if depicting a blooming rose garden.

The scene was beautiful—except for the woman’s face, which remained a blank, unpainted white.

After watching for a while, Meng Siyou noticed that even as Ernos refined the intricate lace cuffs of the woman’s sleeves, she never completed the face—specifically, she never painted the eyes.

Unable to hold back any longer, Meng Siyou finally asked, “Miss, your technique is skilled, but… why haven’t you painted the subject’s facial features?”

“Because, we mustn’t paint eyes.”

Answering casually, Ernos turned to look at him, her violet eyes glinting slightly as if carefully examining his own.

After confirming something, her icy expression softened slightly, and she leaned in close to whisper an ominous warning:

“In this manor, ‘eyes’ are everywhere. They’re always watching everyone…”

Pausing, Ernos repeated solemnly, “So, never paint eyes.”

Meng Siyou froze.

It seemed Ernos knew something about the strange happenings in the manor?

“Eyes” and “gaze”—these elements ran through the entire situation. What secrets lay hidden behind them?

Meng Siyou instinctively wanted to ask more, but unfortunately, lunchtime arrived.

The lady’s maid knocked on the door precisely on time, reminding Ernos to go downstairs for the meal.

Meanwhile, Meng Siyou, still burning with questions, was politely but firmly led back to the servants’ living and dining quarters by the guards.

Even as he sat at the long wooden mess table, Meng Siyou continued pondering the connections between the manor, the eyes, and Ernos—who seemed to be in the know.

Lost in thought, he mindlessly slurped his soup while keeping an ear out for the surrounding chatter.

Lunch was perhaps the most relaxed time for the servants.

Someone pulled out a stolen bottle of wine, and as the cork popped, the rich scent spilled out, mingling with the aroma of freshly baked bread in the warm, rising steam.

Rowdy laughter echoed around the table, interspersed with hushed conversations—Meng Siyou overheard many servants discussing Anna’s death.

Most spun their tales with exaggerated gestures, painting a terrifying and eerie atmosphere. Only one grizzled, middle-aged man reacted differently, catching Meng Siyou’s attention.

Compared to the other servants, the man was disheveled and unkempt. As others speculated about cultists infiltrating the manor, his lips occasionally curled into a derisive smirk.

Fumbling across the table, he found his wine cup and chugged it roughly.

The alcohol quickly flushed his dark skin, and he slurred loudly:

“Hah! The moment that cursed woman was brought back… the high-and-mighty lord should’ve known this day would come!”

“He brought the curse upon himself! …He asked for it!”

The table fell deathly silent.

Everyone froze mid-action—tearing bread, ladling soup, cutting roast pork—their bodies rigid like statues, only their eyes moving as they stared blankly at the drunken man.

The scene was downright unnatural and unsettling. Even Meng Siyou, hiding in the corner, felt his blood run cold.

He had suspected others in the manor might be infected by the unnatural glow, but he never imagined the number could be so vast—almost *everyone*!

With just a few words, the drunkard had seemingly provoked the hidden boss…

Meng Siyou inwardly panicked for the man, but the latter was blind, oblivious to the abnormality around him.

Lost in his drunken haze, the man didn’t notice the sudden silence, merely continuing to drink, his messy beard damp with wine.

After a moment of silent stares, the servants all turned away as if nothing had happened, resuming their chatter and laughter.

The thought of being surrounded by “eyes” made Meng Siyou’s hair stand on end, his grip on the spoon stiffening.

Perhaps noticing his discomfort, the baby-faced maid beside him flashed a bright smile and slung an arm around him affectionately. “Did Old John scare you, little Meng Na?”

“Don’t take his nonsense to heart. Everyone in the manor knows he’s just a blind, delusional wreck of a man.”

Meng Siyou shivered but didn’t shake her off, forcing a smile in return.

Playing the part of a naive, curious child, he asked, “He stinks of alcohol and doesn’t seem capable of work. Why is he still allowed to stay?”

The baby-faced maid thought for a moment before answering:

“They say Old John was once nimble and skilled, especially in horse taming and archery. He served in the Duke’s personal guard.”

“But sadly, during a hunting trip with the Duke, he fell from his horse while protecting him… Though he survived the trampling, a branch pierced his eyes, leaving him blind.”

“The Duke, moved by his loyalty, bravery, and sacrifice, allowed him to keep a useless job—lurking near the woods at the manor’s edge. His only ‘duty’ is to report unauthorized tree-cutting to the patrol.”

She shrugged dismissively. “When sober, the old man just wanders aimlessly. Drunk, he spouts gibberish. Not a word he says is trustworthy.”

Meng Siyou sensed this man held a clue.

Claiming he’d had enough, he left the table early, pretending to return to his room before sneaking out the window unseen and sneaking toward the back courtyard.

The manor was vast, and it took him a long time of careful sneaking before a thick grove appeared in the distance.

Beside the trees stood a small, old but sturdy wooden shack, an empty barrel tipped outside.

Meng Siyou guessed this was where the middle-aged man was stationed.

Hiding behind the log cabin and waiting for a while, Meng Siyou finally heard a series of lurching footsteps—one heavy, one light.

The drunkard returned clutching a wine barrel. Just as he opened the cabin door and steadied himself against the frame to step inside, a hand reached out from the side and tugged at his sleeve.

"Mr. John," the "girl's" youthful voice rang out, her tone serious. "May I speak with you?"

Letting out a drunken hiccup, Old John burst into a booming laugh. "Little one, what could we possibly have to talk about? Shall I tell you a bedtime story before your nap?"

With that, he impatiently shook off Meng Siyou's hand but paused just before slamming the door.

He heard Meng Siyou speak calmly, her composure far more mature than that of an ordinary child:

"I'd like to talk to you about the woman the Duke brought back to the manor many years ago—I wonder if that topic might interest you?"

...

While Meng Siyou was conducting her investigation, the Prophet was conversing with the Duke in the study.

In just two short days, this Duke, who possessed boundless wealth and power, had grown noticeably haggard and aged. Were it not for his naturally pale hair, his temples might have already shown streaks of gray.

With a grave expression, he sat behind the solid oak desk, fidgeting with the golden ring symbolizing his status as the head of the household between his fingers, his movements revealing his agitation.

If the old Duke's presence was oppressive, like gathering storm clouds, then the Prophet was the complete opposite.

The young man draped in a white cloak sat at ease, leisurely sipping his black tea, as if he and the Duke occupied separate worlds.

After a moment, the old Duke sighed wearily. "You must have witnessed the string of incidents that have occurred in the manor these past two days."

"I fail to understand how such horrifying events could take place within the lands governed by the Iris family."

"That girl from the farm—she met her mysterious end in her room, yet the patrolling guards at night and the people in nearby chambers heard no cries, no struggle, no screams!"

Massaging his temples wearily, the Duke turned to the Prophet. "I make this sincere request of you—"

"Would you be willing to share some insight from fate and tell me how to dispel the evil presence looming over this manor?"

The Prophet deliberately set down his bone china teacup and gave a mild smile. "Your Grace, I believe you are aware that a sincere request must be built upon some measure of honesty."

"You have kept things from me, and thus, fate remains obscured to you."

As he spoke, the Prophet's index finger tapped rhythmically against the desk, the crisp sound that made the Duke shudder.

At that moment, the Duke felt as though the Prophet's golden eyes were intangible blades, capable of delicately yet precisely flaying open the surface to expose all his secrets, cowardice, and evasions...

Clenching his slightly trembling hands, the Duke suddenly slumped back, leaning against his chair in defeat. "My apologies. That was my mistake."

"To seek your aid, from this moment onward, neither I nor my family shall conceal anything from you."

The Duke rose and approached the tall bookshelf opposite the desk.

After adjusting some hidden mechanisms, the heavy bookshelf suddenly split apart and slid to either side with a heavy thud, revealing a hidden space between them.

The hidden space was small, containing only a wooden chest and a painting shrouded in black cloth.

"Many things from my youth... I haven't spoken of them to anyone in a long time."

The Duke knelt before the painting, his gaze both nostalgic and tinged with pain.

After a long pause, he finally steeled himself and reached out to lift the black cloth covering the canvas.

The fine fabric slid away like flowing water, revealing the serene smile of the woman in the frame—she had thick golden curls, delicate features, and pale dove-gray eyes that exuded tranquility and mystery.

Yet, somewhat unnaturally, her pupils were an unnatural, vivid emerald green, vividly bright against the surrounding gray irises.

"Many of these anomalies... perhaps stem from my first meeting with... my wife."

As the Duke recounted his memories, the Prophet's gaze rested on the brooch pinned to the Duchess's collar.

The brooch was uniquely shaped, resembling a fountain pen. Its translucent barrel gleamed with starlight, and attached to it was a spherical object resembling an eye.

—This was the insignia of Longinus, the "Anchored Eye."