QT: I hijacked a harem system and now I'm ruining every plot(GL) Chapter 89: Legacy

Chapter 89 – Cedric POV

A strange quiet settles over the streets of the capital—not the peaceful kind, but the stillness of unease, like the whole town is holding its breath. When the first cases of fever appear, the nobles dismiss it as a peasant’s issue. Then a rchant’s son dies. Then two guards. And suddenly, I’m summoned to a council I hadn’t even known I was supposed to attend.

"Your Grace," they all murmur when I arrive, like they haven’t spent the past year treating like a ceremonial accessory.

Funny how power slips in through the cracks when no one’s paying attention.

I don’t waste ti. The symptoms are too familiar—vomiting, fever, weakness, rash. I rember reading about this in my past life. Contaminated water systems. Open sewers. Zero hygiene infrastructure.

So I draw up a plan. One that makes every face in the room twist in confusion.

"Boil the water?" the city steward repeats, appalled.

"Yes. Until we can replace or purify the water sources, boiling it is the easiest preventative asure."

That’s just the beginning. I outline a proposal to dig waste canals, construct public bathhouses, and create basic sanitation hubs. I show them rough sketches of hand pumps and strategically placed hygiene stations.

"Are you suggesting we... bathe the peasants?" a noblewoman asks, visibly repulsed.

"Yes. Unless you’d rather bury more sons."

That ends the argunt.

---

Weeks pass. I rise with the sun, inspecting dig sites, ordering deliveries of li and stone, negotiating with masons and talworkers. I promise coin. Tax breaks. I even promise a title to the engineer who manages to construct the first functioning aqueduct bypass.

And it begins to work. Slowly.

Infection rates drop. Families return to the town square. Bakeries reopen. The bell tower rings again.

People begin looking at differently.

Not as a joke. Not as a puppet. But as a duke.

---

"Your Grace, there’s a gathering forming in the square," rin says one evening, helping unlace my riding coat.

"Another protest?" I groan.

She shakes her head.

"No. They’re... celebrating."

I blink.

And I go.

Candles light up every doorstep, flickering like stars scattered across the stone streets. Music plays. Tavernkeepers pour watered ale into tin mugs. Children dance barefoot under the banners.

One banner hangs crooked, hand-painted in shaky letters: "Duke Callum the Clean."

It’s absurd.

But I smile.

---

Later, rin delivers news: "The physician confird it. Lady Clarissa is with child. So are Lady Miriam and Lady Viola."

I just stand there.

Three.

Three.

Relief. Pride. Dread. They all collide in my chest.

And then—sothing more.

Hope.

Not for power. Not for influence.

But for continuity. Legacy.

I’m going to be a father.

Three tis over.

In my office, surrounded by maps and drafts of sewer lines and rainfall charts, I freeze. The ink stains my fingertips. Dust clings to my boots.

And yet my heart is full.

For the first ti in either of my lives, I feel... purpose.

I want my children to walk these streets and say, "My father did this."

So I work harder.

I et with each vassal. Quietly shift loyalties, reward competence, remove decay.

I study law, estate managent, philosophy.

And every ti I see a boy watching the streets like they hold endless possibility, I think of my old self.

And I vow he’ll be the last.

---

I call a eting in the duchess’ salon.

Not for her approval.

But because she deserves to see it.

The new estate budget. Tax reforms. Land grants. Guild endorsents.

She reads them, her gaze calm and precise.

"Well done," she says, and it feels like a coronation.

Not affection.

Recognition.

Respect.

"I don’t know what caused this change," she says, voice asured. "But I’m glad my duties have lightened."

I nod. "I’ll try not to disappoint."

A beat of silence passes between us. I glance at her, and it strikes again—how beautiful she is. In a terrifying, untouchable way. Like a statue carved by so divine sculptor and placed too high to ever reach.

Now that the ladies are preoccupied with pregnancy and the court is, for once, not falling apart, I think maybe—just maybe—I might have ti to get to know my wife.

I clear my throat

. "I’ve been thinking... maybe we could have tea together. Or dinner. Sotis."

She pauses. Her expression doesn’t shift right away—still poised, still perfectly unreadable. Then she turns to slightly, brows knitting.

"For what reason?" she asks, genuinely puzzled.

I blink.

"Is there any reason why we need a reason? We are married, after all."

She tilts her head.

"Indeed. But we are not in union because of affection. This was not a love match, Your Grace. I think our current relationship is perfectly functional."

I flinch.

She doesn’t an it cruelly. Evelyne never needs cruelty—truth alone is often sharp enough.

Still, I force a smile, the kind I’ve perfected in court etings, when surrounded by n who want to see fail.

"Surely we could try to... better it."

"Better sothing already functioning?" she echoes, genuinely confused.

"Why?"

There’s a mont. Then she adds, almost too casually, "Do you wish to lay with ? If so, I can speak to the steward and arrange—"

"No." My voice is sharp, a little too sharp. "Stop. That’s not it."

I fake a smile again. Smaller this ti. The kind that doesn’t quite reach the eyes.

It’s not that I don’t think she’s beautiful. Gods, she is. It’s that she sees my every gesture as transactional. chanical. As if affection were a coin to trade or a schedule to be kept.

"I just thought... never mind." I shake my head, swallowing down the bitter taste of rejection.

"Forget I asked."

She doesn’t respond. She nods once—formally, politely—and excuses herself.

And I’m left standing there, staring at the place she had been, wondering when exactly I started wanting more than respect.

When did that seed take root?

Respect, I’ve earned.

But affection?

That feels further out of reach than any crown.

I sit back down at my desk, the parchnt and ledgers and maps now just weightless paper instead of the armor they’ve always been. I used to lose myself in numbers. Now, I can barely focus.

I trace a finger along the edge of the duchess’ teacup, still half-full. She barely touched it. The imprint of her lips remains faintly on the rim.

She sees as capable now.

But not desirable. Not... human, even.

I try not to resent that.

But it hurts.

And that’s new.