Lord: My Shop Connects to Modern Times

Dawn City, Royal Palace.

Alex Winster walked down the corridor leading to his father's bedroom.

There is a crystal chandelier every twenty steps along both sides of the corridor.

Unlike the oil lamps commonly used by ordinary people, this was a creation unique to the court sorcerers. The magical flames inside burned quietly, illuminating the marble floor until it shone like a mirror.

The walls are adorned with portraits of past kings, and from his great-great-grandfather onwards, generation after generation of the Winster family men gaze upon their passing descendants with the same look.

The most recent portrait is of his father, Charlie Winster.

His face was serious, yet his eyes held a touch of kindness. Alex paused briefly before the portrait, then looked no further and continued walking deeper into the corridor.

He wasn't walking very fast; the heels of his boots tapped rhythmically on the ground.

There were two guards in front of him. When they saw him coming, they bowed and then stepped aside to the sides.

He nodded and continued walking forward.

He had walked this road countless times.

When I was little, my mother would lead me here to pay my respects to my father. Later, I would come alone to listen to his lectures. As an adult, I came less often, not because I didn't want to, but because I rarely saw him when I did come.

My father has been very busy in recent years, busy with diplomacy with the Northern Winter Empire, busy dealing with internal strife among the nobles, and busy with that damned enemy of the entire race—the monsters.

But this time the situation is different.

Alex hadn't seen his father for several months.

To be precise, my father has been "sick" since the spring of this year.

The court physician, Maurice, said His Majesty needed to rest and could not see anyone. At first, Alex came to pay his respects every day, but was always turned away at the door.

Later it came every three days, then once a week, and then...

He couldn't pinpoint when he started to lose that attachment.

Perhaps it was the third time I was turned away at the door. Perhaps it was when I heard that my second brother was also turned away.

Perhaps it was because of that one selfish thought that shouldn't have been there—if his father passed away, the throne would naturally fall to him…

Anyway, in the past few months, none of the four brothers have been able to step into that door.

until three days ago.

My father appeared at the morning assembly three days ago.

Alex remembered standing in the queue, watching the man walk in through the side door and head towards the throne.

He wore a purple royal robe and a golden crown symbolizing royal power. He walked steadily, his back straight, and his gaze swept over the assembled officials in the hall, his majesty undiminished.

He was stunned.

That was indeed my father.

It wasn't a stand-in, it wasn't an illusion. He knew his father too well—the face he'd seen since childhood, how could he mistake him?

But wasn't Father already "terminally ill"?

Although no one in the palace dared to say it openly, almost everyone tacitly believed it to be true.

At that moment, the first thought that popped into his mind wasn't "Father is better," but rather—

What exactly happened in the past few months?

Why can't I see him? Why can't I see his other children? Why can't I see his mother?

The court assembly lasted for two hours.

The father dealt with the backlog of government affairs, summoned several ministers, and announced several appointments.

Everything is the same as before.

His voice, his tone, and his habit of slightly frowning when reviewing memorials were all the same as before.

After the meeting, Alex walked last.

He wanted to go up to his father and say a few words, even if it was just to greet him.

But his father was surrounded by a crowd, and he was squeezed on the outside. By the time he managed to get in, his father was already being helped by Maurice and being led towards the bedroom.

He only had time to see his father's back.

Today, he decided to come and get to the bottom of this.

After passing through the long corridor and turning a corner, you will find the main gate of the palace ahead.

Four unfamiliar guards stood at the door. Alex frowned.

He knew all of his father's personal guards, but he had never seen these four people before.

"Your Highness," the head guard bowed, "His Majesty is resting."

"I know," Alex said. "I've come to pay my respects."

The guard hesitated for a moment, then stepped aside: "Please wait a moment, I'll go and inform them."

Alex stood at the door waiting.

After about the time it takes to drink a cup of tea, the guard came out.

"Your Highness, His Majesty requests your presence."

Alex nodded and went inside.

The bedroom was darker than he remembered. The curtains were only half open, blocking out the afternoon sunlight, and a few lamps were lit inside.

There was a faint medicinal smell in the air, mixed with some kind of incense he couldn't name.

The father sat in a chair by the window.

He was dressed casually, draped in a thin blanket, and holding a book. Sunlight streamed through the gaps in the curtains, illuminating his face clearly.

"Alex." His father looked up, a smile spreading across his face. "You've come?"

Alex paused for a moment.

The father smiled.

I haven't seen my father smile in a long time.

He recalled that the last time he saw his father smile was on his fifth sister's fourteenth birthday.

He strode forward and knelt on one knee: "Father, your health..."

"Alright." The father raised his hand to help her up. "Get up."

Alex stood up and sat down in the chair next to him.

He looked his father over. His complexion was fine, not the paleness of someone who had been ill for a long time. His eyes were clear, unlike the unfocused gaze of the rumors.

But... when those eyes looked at him, it seemed like something was missing.

His father used to look at him with a complex gaze. There was scrutiny, expectation, and occasionally disappointment. But no matter what, it was a living, breathing person.

These eyes are so calm now.

"These past few months," Alex began cautiously, "I've been wanting to visit you..."

"I know," the father nodded. "Maurice said you came many times. I asked him to block you."

Alex's heart tightened: "Father, what exactly...?"

"It's nothing serious," the father said, placing the book on his lap. "I'm just tired. You know how it is, sitting in this position, there's never a moment's rest."

He paused, and the smile on his face faded slightly.

"I finally had a chance to find some peace and quiet, so I hid for a few months."

Alex remained silent.

Seeking peace and quiet?

Alex’s father was never that kind of person; he was a wise ruler, the kind of king that Alex admired.

He remembered that when he was a child, his father would sleep only two hours a day for half a month in a row, just to deal with the rebellion in the North.

His mother urged him to rest, but he replied, "If I rest, where will my people in the North, who have suffered unjustly, rest?"

Sometimes, when I get annoyed by their advice, I'll say, "I'll have plenty of time to rest after I'm dead!"

Would a father like that hide away for months of time just because he's "tired"?

But he didn't ask.

My father is doing well now, and that's enough.

"How have you all been these past few months?" his father's voice pulled him back to reality.

Alex carefully chose his words: "Everything... is alright. My second brother often goes to the Minister of Military Affairs and is close to my third uncle and the others. My third brother..."

He paused.

"My third brother is still the same as ever, hanging out with those noble children. My fourth brother is studying at home and doesn't go out much. My little sister..."

When Alex mentioned his younger sister, a smile involuntarily appeared on his face.

"My little sister chases butterflies every day. A few days ago, she even ran into the garden to catch rabbits, tripped and fell, scraped her knee, and cried all afternoon."

The father listened, a smile remaining on his face.

But Alex suddenly felt that the smile was a little strange.

He said that when his younger sister fell, his father's expression didn't change at all.

When he was a child, his father would frown and say, "Men of the Winster family don't cry."

But when it came to his youngest sister—the one he doted on the most, the one he would hug every time they met—he just listened, smiled, and said nothing.

"Is she alright?" the father asked.

The tone was very ordinary.

He showed concern, but not in the way his father usually showed.

"It's nothing," Alex said. "Mother applied medicine to her, and she was lively and energetic the next day."

The father nodded.

Alex waited a few seconds, hoping his father would ask more about his younger sister. But his father didn't ask.

He recalled that in the past, every time he came to pay his respects, his father would ask him many questions.

Ask the second child about his studies, ask the third child about his friends, ask the fourth child what books he's been reading lately, and ask the youngest sister if she's been naughty.

He gets annoyed sometimes when I ask him questions.

But my father kept asking questions.

Today, my father only asked, "How are you guys doing?" and then just listened.

He stopped asking.

"Father," Alex said, "Are you really alright?"

His father looked at him.

Those eyes were calm.

"It's nothing," he said. "It's just that I'm getting old, and I recover slowly."

Alex didn't know what to say.

The room was quiet for a few seconds.

"How many years have you been married?" the father suddenly asked.

Alex was taken aback: "Five years."

"No children yet?"

"……yes."

The father nodded and did not ask any further questions.

Alex felt a surge of emotions.

He remembered that the year he got married, his father drank too much at the banquet, grabbed his hand and said, "Have a son soon, while I can still carry him."

My father's eyes were shining then; he was genuinely happy.

Now the father just nods, as if confirming an insignificant fact.

The sunlight streaming in through the window moved slowly, casting a long, dark shadow on the ground.

The two remained silent for an even longer time this time.

"Father," Alex stood up, breaking the silence, "You should rest well. I will come to pay my respects another day."

The father nodded: "Go ahead."

Alex walked to the door and looked back one last time.

My father was still sitting by the window, sunlight shining on his profile.

The book was on his lap, but his gaze wasn't on it; it was fixed on something outside the window.

That profile looks familiar.

His profile, which he has seen since childhood.

But at this moment, he felt that profile was a little unfamiliar.

He couldn't explain why it felt unfamiliar.

Just ...

He pushed open the door and went out.

The door closed behind me.

The corridor remained quiet, with four unfamiliar guards standing motionless at the door.

Alex slowly walked back.

He stopped and looked at his father's portrait for a while as he passed by.

The father in the painting has a serious face, yet his eyes reveal a loving expression.

It was painted three years ago. He remembered that his father sat there for two whole hours while the painter drew it stroke by stroke.

My father's eyes shone with light back then.

The father sitting by the window today also had a light in his eyes.

But those were two different kinds of light.

He couldn't explain what was different.

Maybe I'm overthinking it.

My father has been sick for so long, and it will take time for him to recover. It's normal for him to have fewer facial expressions, talk less, and react more slowly.

I must be overthinking it.

Alex thought of his younger brother.

Alfred was two years younger than him and they had never gotten along since childhood.

Half of the people at the Ministry of War are Alfred's men. These past few months, with his father "ill," Alfred has been going to the Ministry of War the most.

The third brother, Edmund, spends all his time hanging out with those noble children, but who knows what he's really up to?

The fourth brother, George, seemed the most honest, spending his days reading at home.

Little sister Ella...

Thinking of his little sister, a smile crept onto his lips again. That silly girl, she fell and cried all afternoon, but the next day she was bouncing around like a baby again.

Her father used to love her the most.

When her father heard that she had fallen today, he just nodded.

He stopped and stood in the middle of the corridor.

Maybe I'm just overthinking it.

Perhaps in a few days, Father will turn back into the Father he used to be.

He took a deep breath and continued walking forward.

As he walked out of the corridor, the sunlight shone on him, warm and comforting.