The Villainous Male Supporting Character Courts Death Every Day : Chapter 7: The Duke

Kyle raised his eyebrows slightly, seemingly surprised by the old Duke’s summons. He bent into a bow. “Yes, Young Master. I shall go pay my respects to His Grace at once.”

A flicker of irritation crossed Milo’s brow, but he held some fear toward his father the Duke and could not vent his temper. He waved his hand dismissively. “Fine, go on then. I won’t be coming.”

Kyle bowed and silently withdrew.

The room fell silent. Milo lounged on the sofa, idly fiddling with his fingers. After quite some time, he raised his hand and ran his fingers through his hair like a comb, only to leave it more disheveled than before. His brow furrowed tightly, restless and unable to sit still. In the end, he picked up his teacup and downed it in one go.

The tea gone, the delicate pattern at the bottom of the cup was revealed. Milo simply began studying the intricate design, turning the cup over in his hands. His gaze drifted now and then toward the direction Kyle had left, until finally he could not resist calling a servant over and instructing, “Go find out what the Duke wants with Kyle.” The servant hurried off to comply.

Kyle followed the attendant through the grand hall, and after being announced, entered the Duke’s study. The room was spacious and lofty, with dark walnut bookshelves stretching from floor to ceiling. Heavy tomes and document folders secured with gold clasps were arranged in neat, orderly rows.

The broad, substantial desk was finely carved, its edges inlaid with golden vines and falcon motifs. A gold-threaded pen holder held gilded quill pens, and beside it sat seals of various sizes, sealing wax, and paperweights, each piece exquisite and luxurious, silently proclaiming the unquestionable status of the study’s master.

This was not merely a study. It was a fortress at the heart of power.

Amid the solemn dignity of the room, the Duke sat at his desk reviewing documents. Hearing Kyle enter, he did not look up, but merely pointed casually before him, signaling him to sit.

The Duke’s expression was severe. The years had not left him looking old; rather, they had chiseled his features into something cold and sharp. A head of golden hair, the mark of noble blood, was threaded with a silvery pale gold, glinting with cold brilliance.

He was solidly built, with broad shoulders and a wide back. His dark suit was tailored with strict precision, the fabric subtly gleaming with a muted sheen. The ornamentation was sparse, yet every detail was exact, carrying weight even in its restraint. He sat there, upright as an iron wall, like an immovable high wall, impossibly beyond reach.

His eyes, molten gold, shone with a stern light. Like Milo, he had golden irises, yet they held the same depth and restraint as Kyle’s.

The difference was that the Duke’s gaze carried scrutiny and pressure, as if constantly weighing the value of others. Between his brows lurked a gloom and arrogance, his expression a mixture of haughty pride in power and cold indifference toward human nature. He possessed both the dignity of a superior and the contempt of one.

Kyle bowed respectfully, then sat down with measured grace, his posture elegant and impeccable, not a single fault to be found. “Your Grace, what do you require of me?”

“I hear you got Milo that Zabert piano?” The Duke raised his eyes, his gaze burning like torches. Each word was spoken with forceful clarity. This was not a question. It was a demand for accountability.

Kyle’s expression remained calm, a faint smile at the corner of his mouth, as if he had anticipated this very inquiry. He nodded. “Yes, Your Grace. Your sources are well informed.”

“Hmph.” The Duke let out a low, cold snort. The quill in his hand slashed heavily across the document, nearly tearing through the paper. “The whole city is talking about this now. What exactly are you two playing at?” His brow knitted tightly, his voice full of impatience. “Milo acts recklessly, and you follow him in his recklessness?”

“The Zabert Piano is a treasure of the music world. It would be a true shame for it to fall into common hands. The Young Master’s actions were meant to protect our cultural heritage.” Kyle’s face was serene, yet his tone rose leisurely, warm and thought-provoking.

The Duke let out a cold laugh. Slowly, he closed the document folder and leaned back in his chair, his knuckles lightly rapping the armrest, his gaze frigid. “All for the daughter of the Laurentis family? The young lady of a fallen noble house.”

A faint glint flickered in Kyle’s eyes, his expression watertight, neither defending himself nor admitting anything. He simply stated evenly, “Your Grace, the Laurentis family has a long and distinguished history. Miss Charlotte’s beauty and talent are renowned far and wide. Mr. Zabert was more than willing to gift the piano to Miss Charlotte. That the Young Master could facilitate such a happy occasion is itself a fine story.”

“Absurd!” The Duke slammed his palm against the desk, the sound echoing through the study. His face went livid as he thundered, “Truly absurd! To do such a thing merely to curry favor with a woman. The honor of House Ausente has been utterly disgraced!”

The quill on the desk jolted violently, ink trembling at the mouth of the bottle.

Kyle smiled faintly and said nothing, sitting properly and listening quietly to the Duke’s outburst. His fingers, however, were subtly tracing the case of his watch beneath the desk, leisurely and tinged with a hint of amusement. Only when the Duke’s anger subsided did he speak with unhurried composure.

“Your Grace, given the Laurentis family’s standing in artistic circles, Miss Charlotte’s birthday banquet will surely draw many luminaries from the arts and culture world. If the Young Master can shine brilliantly there and spread his fame far and wide,” Kyle paused slightly, the corner of his mouth curving upward, “would that not be a good thing for the ducal manor as well?”

The Duke fell silent. His thumb lightly stroked the silver ring on his finger, his eyes fixed dead upon Kyle, sharp as blades, as if trying to bore a hole through him. Kyle simply met him with quiet calm, his smile warm, his demeanor placid.

At last, the Duke let out a heavy sigh. He raised his hand to rub his brow. “Very well. If it can truly win more support for the family from artistic circles, then it is worth it. Those self-important so-called artists with no political vision whatsoever… hmph, they probably adore this kind of flashy spectacle.”

Kyle nodded slightly, his smile warm without losing its respectfulness. “Please set your mind at ease, Your Grace. The Young Master’s actions will surely earn you even greater admiration and esteem from the artistic world.”

The Duke’s expression softened somewhat. He raised his hand to smooth the creases at his cuff and said coldly, “You think I do not know that you are the one who handled all of this properly? That boy Milo only thought of pleasing a woman.” Then his tone shifted, his voice dropping. “Miss Charlotte is indeed beautiful, and Count Laurentis has some reputation, but they are far from worthy of us. Keep a close eye on him. This matter ends here.”

A light flashed in Kyle’s eyes, gone in an instant. He lowered his head, his manner utterly deferential. “I shall heed Your Grace’s instruction and keep it close to heart, watching over the Young Master properly.” His voice was steady, yet it paused slightly at the end, as if concealing some meaning imperceptible to others.

The Duke looked at Kyle, this illegitimate son born of a drunken lapse in judgment. In his conduct and bearing, the boy carried more of his own style, yet his lowly birth and that black hair and black eyes inherited from his servant mother were constant reminders of the Duke’s own disgrace.

If not for Milo always clinging to him, the Duke would have sent him far away long ago, left him to rot in some forgotten corner with this secret, buried forever.

The Duke’s heart was a tangle of conflicting emotions. Toward Kyle, he felt some blood bond, some acknowledgment of his abilities, but far more than that, he felt revulsion. The very sight of him was aggravating. He closed his eyes to hide the disgust within them and waved his hand as if dispersing some unpleasant shadow. “Go. Milo is in your hands.”

At these words, a barely perceptible flash crossed Kyle’s gaze. He rose to take his leave and bowed deeply. “Yes, Your Grace.”

His voice was pitched extremely low, his humility beyond reproach. Yet beneath his lowered lashes, that faint, almost imperceptible smile was like a hidden whirlpool at the bottom of a lake, unfathomably deep.

Kyle exited the study. The old head steward was waiting just outside the door. Seeing Kyle emerge, he cast an inquiring glance. Kyle merely nodded to him politely in greeting and departed at once. The old head steward watched Kyle’s retreating figure, thinking to himself with some puzzlement, “Kyle… why does he seem to be in such a strangely good mood?”

At that same moment, Milo received the servant’s report and learned both the reason for the old Duke’s summons and that the old Duke had praised Kyle. The jealousy and unease in his heart grew ever stronger. This was the original character’s deepest, most bitter hatred toward Kyle, and Milo too found himself restless with anxiety, fuming and pacing in circles around the room.

Suddenly, a system mission alert sounded in his mind:

“Today’s mission: torment Kyle.”

A malicious smile curved the young man’s lips.