Chapter 204

Chapter 204

Evan followed behind Lillian, his gaze sweeping over the natives. He noticed that although they were ragged and gaunt, their eyes held only reverence for Lillian, with no trace of hostility.

He also took note of the surroundings of the vineyard. In the distance, a few white overseers were patrolling, whips in hand, yet they made no move to shout or strike—likely on Marcus’s orders.

“These grapes are growing well,” Lillian said, stepping up to the vine and tiptoed to examine the fruit in a serious tone. “Anna, go ask the steward what the expected yield is this year. Are the oak barrels for winemaking ready?”

Anna acknowledged and hurried off, soon returning with a steward dressed in a coarse linen vest. The steward bowed respectfully to Lillian. “Miss. This year’s grapes are thriving better than usual; the expected yield is twenty percent higher than last year. The oak barrels for winemaking are ready—all high-quality imported oak, already pre-dried.”

“Very good.” Lillian nodded, her tone steady, nothing like a spoiled little girl. “Tell the workers to tend them well. I’ll come personally to inspect the harvest. If the yield is good this year, each of them will receive an extra half gold coin as a bonus.”

The steward’s eyes lit up with surprise, and he quickly replied, “Yes, thank you, Miss! I’ll pass that on to everyone!” The surrounding natives, hearing this, lifted their heads, gratitude shining in their eyes as they bowed deeply to Lillian.

Evan watched this scene, and it all clicked for him.

Though Lillian had been spoiled, Marcus had clearly been grooming her for this. After all, she was his only child—everything in Gray Manor, even the entire family estate, would one day be hers.

This pampering concealed a careful cultivation of an heir, and it was no wonder Marcus spared no expense to hire two Sequence 8 Supernaturals to protect her.

Laura also noticed the shift in Lillian, a look of approval in her eyes. She had initially thought Lillian was just a naive rich girl, but she knew how to care for the servants and showed concern for the estate’s operations—a maturity and sense of duty beyond her years.

Leaving the vineyard, Lillian led the group to the sugarcane fields. The sugarcane stood tall and thick, green leaves swaying in the sunlight. She walked to the edge of the field, carefully inspecting the growth, and asked the steward about the harvest schedule and transport arrangements. Throughout, her tone remained steady and earnest, her occasional smiles blending girlish innocence with the confidence of an heir.

The sun slowly sank to the west, stretching their shadows out long. Lillian’s forehead was beaded with sweat, and Anna quickly handed her a water flask.

After taking a sip, she said to Evan and Laura, “Thanks for sticking with me this whole time. Let’s head back to the main house first; we can come out later to watch the sunset.”

“Yes, Miss,” Evan and Laura replied in unison.

After finishing the inspection tour with Lillian, Evan had a clear picture of Gray Manor’s staff structure in his mind.

This wasn’t guesswork; it came from his sharp eyes as a Supernatural, putting together what he saw, heard, and sensed along the way—from the vineyard to the sugarcane fields, from the natives’ huts to the servants’ quarters in the main house. He didn’t miss a single detail.

The estate’s staff setup wasn’t complicated, but it showed a clear class divide. The largest group was the seventy natives working in the fields.

Evan had noted their ages, mostly between fifteen and thirty—in their prime, strong and able-bodied. Their arms were muscular, their hands calloused from years of gripping tools and cutting sugarcane, every move showed the skill and strength honed by years of labor. But that vitality was buried under a layer of deep exhaustion.

They wore the coarsest gray cloth, thin and tattered, revealing dark skin beneath. The hems and sleeves were caked with mud and sugarcane juice, their original color long gone.

Under the blazing sun, their bent bodies cast long shadows as sweat rolled down their faces and backs, evaporating instantly on the cracked earth. Evan had caught a glimpse of them during breaks: a few huddled in the shade of the cane, pulling out coarse grain cakes wrapped in cloth from their pockets, chewing slowly with water they carried. The cakes were so hard they were tough to swallow, but they ate them carefully. They lived at the edge of the estate in a few low, run-down thatched huts, drafty, with just a thin layer of straw on the ground and no real beds.

Sure, compared to the days of slavery, when they were beaten and traded at will, things had gotten better—they didn’t have to worry about being sold, and they could barely fill their stomachs without starving. But that “improvement” was just “barely getting by.”

Every day, before dawn, the overseers’ whistles woke them up, working from before sunrise until sunset, putting in over ten hours of labor.

Their pitiful wages were only a quarter of what poor whites made, just enough to feed themselves, with nothing to spare for a family.

Evan even noticed a few young natives still had fresh whip marks on their arms, clearly from the overseers’ beatings.

What bothered Evan most was what was hidden deep in their eyes. When Lillian’s group came by, they instinctively lowered their heads, acting reverent and submissive, shoulders hunched like they were trying to disappear.

But Evan always caught the cold glint in their eyes when they looked down—a buried resentment, like embers in the dark, faint but ready to flare up.

This resentment wasn’t aimed at Lillian, the newly arrived miss, but at the estate’s master, at this unjust situation.

They might not dare to resist, might lack the strength, but this feeling never faded, buried deep in their hearts, quietly accumulating with every sweat-drenched task, every shouted reprimand.

In stark contrast to the natives were the ten white overseers.

Most were tall, dressed in clean blue work clothes, whips at their waists and cigarettes in hand, strolling slowly along the ridges. When tired, they’d find shade, sit, smoke, and chat, occasionally yelling at a slow-moving native or, if annoyed, lashing out with their whips. They did no heavy work but earned four times the natives’ wages, lived in spacious wooden cabins instead of thatched huts, and enjoyed meat and wine at every meal, living quite comfortably.

Beyond them, the master’s household, the Marcus family, employed twenty servants—ten men and ten women. They wore uniforms: black vests and trousers for the men, blue dresses for the women, all neat and clean. The men handled security, yard work, and heavy lifting, while the women managed cleaning, laundry, and meal preparation. Though their work wasn’t easy, they weren’t exposed to the scorching sun, lived in servant quarters near the main house, and received meals and wages sufficient for a decent life. Their faces rarely showed the natives’ numb exhaustion, only cautious respect.

Evan leaned against a grapevine trellis, watching the distant laborers and overseers, deep in thought. This seemingly peaceful estate was like a giant cage, with rigid class barriers.

Seventy strong natives, tightly controlled by ten overseers, their resentment flowing like an underground current beneath the calm surface. Evan sensed that this suppressed anger might be more dangerous than the scattered soldiers and beasts outside the estate—if some spark ignited this undercurrent, the entire manor could descend into chaos.

The sunset’s glow faded into the horizon, and dusk draped Gray Manor like a thin veil. Evan and Laura followed Lillian back to the main house.

After the long inspection, Lillian’s energy had waned, replaced by fatigue. Her maid Anna hurried ahead to open the main door, and warm yellow light spilled out, dispelling the evening chill.

“I had a wonderful time today. Thanks for your hard work,” Lillian said, turning to Evan and Laura with a light smile, unaware of the undercurrents stirring deep within the estate.

She lifted her straw hat, letting her hair fall loose, swaying gently in the evening breeze.

“Protecting you is our duty,” Laura replied with a slight nod, her eyes discreetly scanning the shadows near the entrance, confirming nothing was amiss.

Evan stood on the steps, taking one last look toward the distant fields where the natives worked—the figures were thinning, most heading to the thatched huts at the estate’s edge. Yet he felt those weary backs hid a restless agitation.

They then entered the main house, settling in the first-floor lounge to wait for dinner, as arranged by Marcus.

Evan leaned by the window, gazing through the glass at the distant native quarters. As night deepened, only a few dim oil lamps flickered there, like ghostly flames in the dark.

He recalled the whip marks on the natives’ arms, their numb expressions, and the fleeting resentment in their eyes, his vigilance sharpening.

Meanwhile, as Evan and the others returned to the main house, four natives who had just finished their labor gathered silently in the shadow of a sugarcane grove at the vineyard’s edge.

They crouched low, keeping their profiles hidden from the white overseers chatting and smoking nearby. Their faces were still smeared with dirt and sweat, but their eyes were unusually bright. After exchanging glances, one slender native spoke first in a rapid, obscure dialect, his voice barely a whisper.

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