Tiya’s Smooth Regression Life Chapter 8

At his radical ascent, certain gossipmongers whispered among themselves.

 

“He must have sold Northern secrets to become the Emperor’s hound.”

 

“It would make fine revenge against the Grand Duke who disowned him.”

 

Many nodded at the plausible story, but in truth, no one knew exactly what he had given the Emperor in exchange for his title. 

 

All that was clear was that, as the Emperor’s hunting dog, he tore into the enemies of the Imperial House and gradually secured his footing among the central nobility.

 

All these steps had earned him the nickname ‘The Poison Scorpion.’ 

 

True to the name, his office was always steeped in suffocating silence.

 

Clatterclatterclatterclatter!

 

…At least, that was the case until fifteen days ago. 

 

At the sound of something barreling toward him from afar, the Count—who until then had processed documents like a wound-up doll—stopped his hand for the first time.

 

Moments later, like an enemy general bursting through the city gates, Tiya kicked open the office door.

 

“Knock.”

 

Shurka cut her off with a single word before she could say anything.

 

“Ah, yes.”

 

Awkwardly shuffling backward, Tiya closed the door and knocked.

 

Then she swung the door wide open again and entered.

 

“Permission.”

 

“Ah, yes, yes.”

 

Once again, she stepped back sheepishly, closed the door, and knocked politely.

 

Knock.

 

Knock-knock-knock-knock!

 

Bang, bang, bang!

 

She looked ready to pound on it until he answered.

 

Shurka removed his glasses, pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose, and spoke.

 

“You may enter.”

 

This time, properly permitted, Tiya pushed the door open and trotted over to the desk.

 

Then, with a look of exaggerated pride, she launched into sudden praise.

 

“Dad, you woke up early again today! Did you sleep well? No nightmares?”

 

“Cough. Ahem.”

 

Anton, Shurka’s aide, cleared his throat dryly.

 

The father and daughter, who looked identical in appearance, continued their conversation without noticing the aide’s struggle. 

 

“Dad, do you want me to check your wardrobe tonight in case there’s a monster hiding in it?”

 

“There are no assassins in my wardrobe.”

 

“Then should I read you a storybook?”

 

“My eyesight and literacy are not impaired.”

 

“Then—”

 

Tap. At last, Shurka set down his pen.

 

“Drop the nonsense and get to the point.”

 

His gaze and tone were so cold that Tiya’s legs trembled as though she stood on thin ice.

 

Grandmother’s gaze could be just as cold, but if one looked closely, one could always find a flicker of warmth swimming in her eyes like a tiny fish.

 

Her father’s eyes were different.

 

Only a hollow void, as if one misstep would send you plunging in to drown.

 

Tiya bit the inside of her cheek hard, swallowing the surge of hurt.

 

Then she carefully unfolded a wrinkled check with both hands and held it out.

 

“One hour of Dad’s time, please approve.”

 

In the amount section, instead of numbers, it read:

 

Amount: Dad’s time

 

*Please pay the bearer the full amount of this check.

 

Fifteen days ago, Tiya had come to him with the blank check Shurka had given her and demanded her reward with a bold face. 

 

“The taxes from Dad’s tiny territory come out to thirty gold per hour! I calculated Dad’s time by the hour, and I want to buy half the value of the spirit egg!”

 

“Dad might not like installment rewards, so I set a period. Until when? Only while I’m in the capital!”

 

“The sooner this lockdown goes away, the better it is for you, Dad! The reward Tiya wants is cheap, cheap! Right now’s the cheapest it’ll ever be!”

 

In Shurka’s estimation, the plague in the North would subside within half a year at the latest.

 

He didn’t consider it a losing bargain—and so he had accepted.

 

‘This is more annoying than I thought.’

 

He hadn’t anticipated daily morning invasions.

 

Even so, Shurka was a man who kept his promises.

 

When he took a seat at the receiving table, Tiya hurried to sit opposite him.

 

Click. A pocket watch was placed on the table, and breakfast was served.

 

The moment Tiya saw today’s menu, her shoulders gave a small shudder. The parenting guidebook said no picky eating.

 

But of all things, it had to be green pea soup! 

 

Nevertheless, to be a great “parental figure,” Tiya forced her trembling lips upward and introduced the menu. 

 

“Today’s breakfast is pea soup! Count Pea, mashed and boiled and crushed beyond recognition into this terrifying dish.”

 

Gulp. Tiya swallowed dryly, lifted her spoon with a shaking hand, and scooped up the soup.

 

“D-Dad, do you want to watch me eat pea soup? I’m not a picky eater or anything.”

 

She glared at the spoonful.

 

This must be why Grandmother said enemies meet on a narrow bridge! 

 

Of all times to encounter Count Pea—right when she had to demonstrate well-balanced eating as a guardian.

 

Tiya squeezed her eyes shut, opened them again, steadied her resolve, and bravely decided to confront this crisis.

 

Thus, with a life-or-death resolve, she shouted fiercely. 

 

“…Count, you revolting scoundrel.”

 

Even Count Shurka—tilting his coffee cup—paused. Anton, sorting papers, froze too.

 

But Tiya’s insults did not stop there.

 

“Even grinding you up wouldn’t be enough, you scoundrel!” 

 

“…”

 

“Count Pea! I’ll mash you like this, and chew you to bits!”

 

With that, she swallowed the soup and beamed triumphantly.

 

Only then did Shurka realize that the “Count” being addressed was the pea soup.

 

In the suffocating silence, a faint choking sound from the aide briefly emerged and vanished.

 

“Be clear with your subject.”

 

“Huh?”

 

Tiya tilted her head, blinking innocently.

 

Rather than waste time explaining, Shurka sipped his coffee.

 

How much time had passed? 

 

Strangely, today’s meal showed no signs of ending.

 

Looking closely, all the other plates were empty, but the green pea soup she had first scooped up remained exactly as it was. 

 

Each slow bite made Tiya’s face crumple like a dried plum.

 

At this pace, the meal might overrun its allotted hour.

 

In the end, the Count—eager to finish a thirty-gold-per-hour engagement as efficiently as possible—picked up an extra spoon.

 

He pulled Tiya’s soup bowl toward himself and began eating it.

 

Tiya’s eyes widened, then she broke into a radiant smile and clapped enthusiastically.

 

“Wow! Dad eats pea soup so well! Uncle Anton, a praise stamp! Quickly, quickly!”

 

“Ah, yes, right here.”

 

As if he had anticipated this, Anton produced the pitifully scored praise board.

 

Tiya filled in a grape drawing with color and announced proudly,

 

“This praise stamp is for defeating Count Pea! When you collect all the praise stamps, I’ll give you a huge present.”

 

“…”

 

“Ahem. I said ‘present.’”

 

“…”

 

“Aren’t you curious? If I were Dad, I’d be super, super curious. Right? Right?”

 

Shurka, deeming it unworthy of response, silently finished the soup.

 

Unable to bear it any longer, Anton stepped in.

 

“I am curious.”

 

“I knew it!”

 

Tiya drummed her tiny hands on the table to build suspense.

 

“Drumroll, drumroll! The present is… Tiya’s Heart Attack!”

 

Clink. Setting down the empty bowl, the Count rose coldly.

 

“Aide. Dispose of this assassin.”

 

“At once, my lord. Now then, Miss, shall we?”

 

Assassin?!

 

“H-Hey! Tiya’s Heart Attack is really good! Grandma loves it!”

 

Even as Anton gently but firmly escorted her out, Tiya’s mouth never stopped moving.

 

* * *

 

After concluding her harmonious breakfast with Dad.

 

“How does it look to you, Winter? Do you think my parenting is being effective?”

 

<Who knows.>

 

Winter replied half-heartedly to Tiya’s question. 

 

From the start, she had little interest in the Count’s reactions. Her only interest was the Count’s weakness. 

 

So while Tiya busily devoted herself to “raising” her father, Winter scoured the Count’s office in search of exploitable leverage.

 

However, since she couldn’t touch objects, she could only peek at open documents, and she had yet to achieve any meaningful results. 

 

‘Well. It’s not like she’s made any progress either.’