Stop Hypnotizing Me, Villainous Princess!

Chapter 60: It’s Like Finding a Pillow When You Need Sleep!

“Master Gre—Master Greya! Something terrible has happened!!!”

Greya, who had been wandering the estate searching for Lynn, suddenly heard the hurried voice of a maid behind him.

He turned to her, puzzled by her frantic demeanor.

“What’s going on?”

The maid stopped to catch her breath before blurting out, “Master Lynn… and… and over thirty of the guards at the training grounds… they’re fighting!!!”

“Are the guards okay?”

Greya froze, instinctively asking about their well-being.

Knowing Lynn’s personality, if he didn’t have a surefire way to take them all down, he would never make a move.

The maid shook her head repeatedly.

A sinking feeling gripped Greya’s chest.

“Master Lynn… he… he beat all the guards… he beat them…”

Beat them to death?

Greya’s scalp tingled as dread washed over him.

What the hell did you do this time, Lynn?!

Watching the maid struggle to finish her sentence, Greya instinctively prepared to rush to the scene.

“He… he made them cry!!!”

“...What?”

Five minutes later.

“Ahhh, it hurts! It f***ing hurts!!!”

“I can’t take it anymore—it’s unbearable!!!”

“Help! Somebody, help!!!”

The training grounds were filled with muscular men writhing on the ground, crying in pain and wailing like children.

Greya stood frozen, his expression stiff.

What in the world happened here?

His gaze shifted to Lynn, who stood to the side, looking entirely unbothered.

Shrugging, Lynn said, “To be fair, I only gave each of them one punch. Honestly, your guards could use some work.”

Like hell I believe you!

Greya’s face was a picture of disbelief as he stared at Lynn’s feigned innocence.

“Oh, right,” Lynn said, patting Greya on the shoulder as though nothing had happened. “I need to ask you something. I’m attending the banquet with Her Highness tonight. Tell me about Bail Tyrius.”

Although Greya was still baffled by the bizarre scene, he decided to let it go for now. Rolling his eyes, he said, “That’s exactly why I came looking for you.”

“For some reason, my father asked me to represent the Augusta family at the banquet tonight, so we’ll be attending together.”

“As for Duke Tyrius… he’s a legend in the military. There’s enough to say about him to last three days and nights. What exactly do you want to know?”

Lynn paused in thought. “Do you know why he’s here in Orne City?”

“For money, of course,” Greya replied, shaking his head. “The demon battlefield has been unsettled lately. It seems the South might be gearing up for war again.”

“As we all know, war requires resources above all else,” Greya continued. “Right now, Duke Tyrius needs to raise a substantial sum to prepare for the winter offensive that might come in a few months.”

Lynn raised an eyebrow. “And how does he plan to raise it? By hosting this charity banquet?”

The original storyline didn’t mention this event, so Lynn was still piecing things together.

While the banquet had indeed drawn many nobles and elites from Orne City and nearby towns—and even a few who had traveled from the capital to meet Duke Tyrius—at best, the funds raised would be a drop in the bucket.

Greya dismissed the idea without hesitation. “Of course not.”

“The banquet is merely a test run, a way to gauge the attitudes of the nobility and the church toward his next move.”

“What move?”

“Tax collection,” Greya revealed, striking at the heart of the issue. “Orne City and the surrounding areas are too far from the capital and have been plagued by years of war. As a result, the empire’s control over this region is weak.”

“You can see this in one clear example: taxes.

“From what I know, the empire hasn’t received its full share of taxes from these cities in years. Most of it gets embezzled by local officials and the church under various pretexts.”

“For instance, certain tax-exemption policies for major churches—they rake in a fortune from the people, yet not a single coin ends up in the empire’s coffers.”

“And these powers are deeply entrenched, with strong ties to the capital, making them difficult to touch.”

Lynn absorbed this lengthy explanation with a thoughtful look. “So that’s why Duke Tyrius is so troubled that he had to come here in person?”

“Exactly,” Greya confirmed with a nod.

The two walked in silence for a moment before Lynn, curious, asked, “In your opinion, which of the local churches is the greediest?”

“That would definitely be the Divine Order Church,” Greya answered without hesitation. “In my view, they preach all day long, but they don’t do a single good deed. They’ve swallowed up 60–70% of the people’s wealth.”

The Divine Order Church?

How convenient!

Lynn’s eyes brightened at the revelation.

For the Witch of the End’s trial, he had been struggling to find a breakthrough. And now, one had landed right in front of him.

It’s like finding a pillow when you’re sleepy!

Meanwhile, Greya noticed the sudden gleam in Lynn’s eyes and felt a chill run down his spine.

Although they hadn’t known each other for long, Greya had already developed a sense for when Lynn was up to no good. And this look… it definitely meant trouble.

“If… hypothetically speaking,” Lynn suddenly asked, “a charming hero swooped in to help Duke Tyrius secure this huge sum of money and crush the arrogance of the Divine Order Church, what would he gain?”

Greya gave him a side glance. “He would earn the friendship of the Tyrius family and the favor of Her Highness, Princess Evester.”

“After all, Her Highness has always sought the support of an Elector.”

In the northern district of Orne City, at the Bartleon estate.

A sleek black luxury carriage was parked on the wide road in front of the estate’s gates.

A middle-aged man, dressed in opulent attire, stood by the carriage, his gaze fixed on the row of neatly lined-up servants at the entrance.

“Still no news of that boy?” he asked.

“No, Steward Sherlock,” the lead servant responded cautiously, glancing nervously at him. “Young Master Lynn… that boy hasn’t returned to the estate since he left last time. We’ve searched all over Orne City, but there’s not a single trace of him.”

“Keep searching,” Sherlock growled, his tone cold and firm. “The orders are clear: if alive, we need to see the person. If dead, we need to see the corpse.”

Then, narrowing his eyes, he added, “And have you forgotten what I told you before?”

“Don’t call me ‘steward.’ In this city, I am the representative of the Bartleon estate. Call me ‘master’!”

“Y-yes, my apologies, Master Sherlock!”

“Forget it. Don’t let it happen again.” Sherlock waved his hand dismissively, irritation etched across his face. “Now, how’s the other matter coming along?”

“Most of the Bartleon family’s assets in Orne City, including real estate, have been thoroughly inventoried. Over the years, we’ve gradually laundered them into your personal property through various means.”

Sherlock frowned. “Not my personal property—the Mosgra family’s property. Remember that. After tonight, this estate will have a new master.”

“Understood!”

The servant wiped sweat from his brow nervously.

Sherlock checked the time and, seeing it was almost time to leave, gave further instructions.

“The Tyrius Duke’s banquet invitation to the Bartleon family has arrived. I’ll head over to attend and take the opportunity to greet the esteemed figure from the Mosgra family. You all stay here and guard the house properly.”

“Yes, Master… but what if that boy comes back?”

Sherlock’s gaze turned icy. “Beat him senseless and lock him up.”

The servant hesitated, a trace of uncertainty flickering across his face. “But he’s still a member of the Bartleon family…”

“The Bartleon family?” Sherlock sneered. “What Bartleon family is left? A comatose old fool, an exile driven out of the capital, and a minor young lady still in the capital, her life and death uncertain.”

“Do you really think they can stir up any trouble?”

Sherlock’s mind drifted briefly to the memory of that boy when he first arrived, crushed and broken like a walking corpse. He shook his head in disdain.

The Bartleon family’s glory was long gone, leaving no hope for a comeback.

If the boy had any sense, he’d find some deserted corner to quietly wither away.

Sherlock allowed himself a self-satisfied smirk. His foresight in aligning himself with the right people ahead of time had spared him from a similar fate.

Otherwise, he too might have faced the reckoning that was sure to come.

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