“Was that enough?”

Biyom drooped down on the chair he sat on. A satisfied smile appeared on his face. He was on the chair that his father, Count Dracul, used to sit on. He couldn’t have been happier to sit on this chair which was a symbol of authority and power. He had always looked up to this chair in envy.

As long as he sat on this chair, everyone in the Dracul estate bowed their heads towards him. But the best thing about it was that he could now harass Joachim—the sole object of adoration from his parents. Biyom could never forget the anger he felt when he heard people murmur that the second son was a much better fit for the Count’s position if only he wasn’t so frail.

‘But that’s over now. In the end, the throne is mine!’

Biyom stroked the chair’s arms lovingly, but as he did this, he soon remembered the chair’s original owner.

‘That old fart. I wish he would just die.’

Biyom’s mouth twitched into a smirk as he thought of Count Dracul lying sick on his bed. Biyom had no love for his family. Joachim was simply an obstacle in his life.

“Hey, Shalom. How is the old man?” Biyom asked the butler next to him. Shalom had served the family for a long time. After the Count collapsed, Biyom left all matters concerning the Count’s care to Shalom. Biyom wasn’t even interested in his father and hadn’t visited the...