Arc 1 The Professor Uncle X Adopted Niece In 80s (2)

CHAPTER 2: A Tea War and a Wilted Rival

The first thing he noticed was the floor.

Warmed. Polished. Red-toned wood, slightly fragrant.

Lucien stepped into the pavilion cabin that Ezra had, somehow, built overnight. It was too quiet. Too intimate. The kind of place people poured wine in. Or confessions.

He’d expected a dining setup—formal. Stoic.

Instead, he was greeted by incense. Steam. Lanterns swinging faintly in the wind. Two low mats. One table.

Ezra was already seated. Legs folded under her. A book closed beside her. She didn’t wear anything seductive—just soft cotton pants, her wrists bare, a towel looped loosely around her neck from the garden.

But she was seductive. Not in form.

In function.

Lucien sat across from her.

No words. Just food.

---

🍱 Dinner Menu: Disarming

– Poached cod in ginger–white daikon broth, skin perfectly soft

– Red rice with pine nuts and garlic oil drizzle

– Charred long beans tossed with sesame and crushed pepper

– Chilled snow fungus salad, cut sharp with lime and plum vinegar

– Warm lemongrass–fig tea, served in clay cups that weren’t there yesterday

---

He took the chopsticks she laid out.

Ezra? Ate with her hands.

Gracefully. Cleanly. As though every movement had been trained.

Lucien blinked. He’d never seen someone eat with such discipline using fingers—no smacking, no mess. Just precision. Her thumb brushed rice. Her wrist scooped salad. She never licked—she wiped. With a small handkerchief tucked into her sleeve.

It unnerved him.

> Since when does eating look like control?

He reached for the tea, distracted. Took a sip.

Paused.

The tea—fig, lemongrass, and something cooling—settled into his chest like a balm. His pulse dipped.

Ezra glanced up finally.

> “The flowers you rejected today? From the original supplier?”

Her tone was conversational.

“Good call. They rot fast in this heat.”

Lucien didn’t reply. Just chewed slower.

She smiled, slightly. But didn’t explain how she knew.

---

When dinner ended, he realized something terrifying.

He wasn’t full.

He was… waiting.

For her to say something else. For her to glance his way again. For her fingers to lift another grain of rice.

But she was already clearing up—elegant, distant.

She poured the remaining tea into a flask. Placed it beside his satchel without asking. Added two rolled snacks in wax cloth.

> “Don’t sleep late.”

And then?

She left.

No bow. No eye contact.

Just steam. Fragrance. And the echo of his own breath.

---

> [System Internal Note: ML Dependency: Moderate]

[Dream Affliction Activated – Subject Lucien may now dream in scent triggers]

[Warning: Long-term denial of Hostie may cause Side Effects]

---

Lucien sat alone.

The chopsticks were still warm.

And her scent was already seeping into the grain of his walls.

~

The back gate of the Vyer estate clicked open.

Ezra stood already waiting, one palm on the frame, the other holding a cooling cloth she’d used to wipe garden dirt from her arms. Her cotton sleeves were rolled, revealing toned forearms speckled in dried turmeric and soil. Her nails clean, her scent — not perfume — but peppermint, soap, and crushed basil.

Marian Elsette blinked.

> “I—was just here to drop off the weekly arrangement. The usual bouquet… for Lucien.”

Ezra didn’t answer right away. She stepped forward slightly, blocking the narrow path where fragrant sweet peas once bloomed.

Now? Wild peppermint. Rue. Medicinal jasmine.

> “He’s no longer receiving florals,” Ezra said evenly.

“They're being redirected to the guesthouse.”

Marian froze, bouquet trembling slightly in her hand. The pinks and whites clashed against the new garden behind Ezra — no longer curated for looks. This garden breathed strong and clean, a living pharmacy.

Marian forced a smile.

> “I see. You’ve… made changes.”

Ezra tilted her head gently.

> “The decorative blooms were withering.”

“It’s better to replace what dies with what heals.”

A faint sound from the system pinged in her head.

> [OFML Proximity Alert – Emotional Discomfort: ↑ Steady]

Marian’s eyes flitted from the trellis—now wrapped in holy basil and climbing ginger—to the compost barrel where a few crushed peonies wilted like discarded memories.

> “They weren’t just for show,” Marian whispered, with a hint of plea.

“Some things are meant to be beautiful… even if they’re not useful.”

Ezra smiled politely.

> “That’s your belief.”

“Mine says everything must serve. Even pain.”

She gestured lightly at the herbal basin beside her, where mint, chamomile, and cloves steeped in warm water. No incense. No chants. Just practicality.

> “Would you like a tea sample? It helps with sleep.”

Marian hesitated.

Ezra already poured a vial into a small clay bottle and offered it — no push, no smile, just silent expectation.

Marian took it. Sniffed.

Then quietly handed it to her assistant instead, who recoiled, gagging slightly at the pungent bitterness.

Ezra didn’t flinch.

> “You needn’t force beauty on someone who’s already healing.”

She walked past Marian then, cool as winter mist. As she disappeared behind the rows of lemon verbena and mugwort, the bouquet Marian had brought… was left forgotten on the stone bench.

Later, Ezra would tear the petals and fold them into the compost barrel. Quietly. Purposefully.

> [System Update:

→ OFML Symbolism Neutralized: Wilting

→ Emotional Threat Level: Contained (for now)]

~

The estate didn’t feel like a professor’s home anymore.

It felt like a base camp—calm on the surface, but humming with silent command.

Ezra moved through the corridors like a new general in a conquered city. No noise, no threats, no ego. Just quiet, calculated presence.

She changed nothing loudly.

She didn’t yell at the maids. She didn’t touch anyone’s schedule.

She just started… rewiring everything.

A new keychain system for the tool shed.

A chalkboard over the pantry freezer—divided by temperature-sensitive storage.

A neat binder labeled “Seasonal Rotations and Soil Memory” appeared in the library, slid right between outdated war strategy books.

And no one saw her place it.

---

By midweek, the estate staff had a new name for her. Not “Miss.” Not “Mistress.” Just:

> “Her.”

> “Her said don’t plant mint near the cinnamon.”

“Her moved the compost dates.”

“Her fixed the leak in the shed roof before we noticed it.”

She wasn’t flashy.

She didn’t need praise.

But her grip? It was iron.

---

Mrs. Heong, the head maid for 30 years, found the linen closet rearranged—labels, flowcharts, emergency restock tiers. Her hands trembled as she folded the last towel.

Mr. Lim, the estate’s logistics manager, opened a supply box to find a clipboard tucked inside. Ezra’s handwriting.

> "Inventory lag: 4 days. Delay again and I’ll manage it myself."

He blinked. She hadn’t raised her voice once. But he never forgot to restock again.

---

Michael watched her sketch the new orchard layout in silence, notebook tucked under one arm, lips moving faintly as she calculated sun angles.

> “You ever run an estate before?” he asked.

She didn’t look up.

> “No. I just know what happens when it collapses.”

---

By the time Lucien returned from a lecture one afternoon, the estate smelled different.

Not sweet. Not perfumed.

Structured.

Like lemongrass, clove, and antiseptic intention.

He paused in the hallway, glanced at the labeled copper canisters on the console shelf. One read "Soothing Digestive — For Staff Use Only."

He said nothing.

But later that evening, he drank from one without asking.

---

📓 System Log:

> [Ezra’s Spatial Authority: 63% Synced]

[Staff Obedience: Passive → Respectful Curiosity]

[Male Lead Subconscious Trigger: “Safe Territory Identified”]

[Title Update (Unofficial): "Lady of the Grounds"]

The results were posted precisely at noon.

Ezra didn’t rush.

She arrived five minutes late, sipping barley tea from a flask wrapped in linen. The registrar’s corridor buzzed with soft chaos—students gathered in nervous clusters, fingers tapping against their screens or muttering under breath.

She didn’t weave through them. She walked straight, slow, certain.

At the noticeboard, names were listed by ID number. Sorted by subject. Ranked.

Ezra V. Starvines — once a failing fashion major with a reputation for emotional breakdowns and forged assignments — now topped all three advanced exams:

Advanced Herbology – 98%

Nutrition-Based Medicinal Preparation – 100%

Applied Survival Botany – 95%

> “Who the hell is that?” “Did she cheat? No way that’s real.” “Wait… that’s her?”

Some turned to look. Some stared openly.

Ezra didn’t blink.

She took another sip of tea.

Her expression didn’t shift, but her eyes moved fast—tracking not the grades, but the reactions. Who looked smug. Who looked nervous. Who started to whisper.

The system pinged:

> [Evaluation Thread: Secured]

[Class Access Granted: Advanced Medicinal Labs | Restricted Herb Fieldwork | Faculty Exemption from Attendance Checks]

[System Tree Expansion: ✧ Wild Foraging ✧ Alchemical Ratios ✧ Therapeutic Cooking ✧]

Then—

> [Side Mission Unlocked – “Hostile Praise”]

✦ Objective: Win over your harshest critic within 10 days.

✦ Hint: Wears glasses. Breathes like a disappointed thesis advisor.

Ezra smirked, but only slightly.

She turned away, calmly, just as a second-year boy blurted out:

> “No offense, but isn’t she the psycho that threw a chair at a professor?”

Ezra paused mid-step. Only once.

She looked back at him—just enough to meet his eyes.

And smiled.

> “That professor was allergic to belladonna. I warned him.”

She left the hallway silent behind her.

---

🌿 At the Estate

By evening, the sun had lowered into a honey glow over the south field.

Ezra had already redrawn the livestock pen layout, now optimized by species and waste conversion logic. The ducks would rotate twice a week. Chickens would compost their bedding directly. The goat shelter got shade nets and cooling moss along the back wall.

Michael trailed after her, holding a clipboard.

> “How… do you know all this?” he asked, hesitant.

Ezra didn’t stop planting.

> “You can learn a lot when no one’s speaking to you.”

She bent over the soil, pressing turmeric rhizomes into soft earth. One by one.

> “Or when you’re supposed to be locked in a room, screaming.”

Michael didn’t know how to respond. He just nodded and wrote things down.

From the far porch, Mr. Smith watched again. He had a tea towel slung over his shoulder and a mild frown tightening his features.

He murmured to Mrs. Heong beside him:

> “She’s not just planting. She’s building something.”

> “A garden?”

> “No,” he said, voice low. “A stronghold.”

Ezra, crouched by the mulch, heard it.

But she said nothing.

She only looked up at the setting sun and whispered to herself:

> “Almost ready.”

~

Evening – Kitchen

The sun had barely dipped past the treetops when Ezra returned to her domain: the kitchen she didn’t own but fully claimed.

She tied her apron, washed her hands in warm lime water, and began her quiet ritual.

First: the porridge. A medicinal base designed to soothe inflammation and encourage deep, dreamless sleep.

Short-grain rice, soaked since morning.

Goat bone broth, simmered with ginger, nutmeg, and dried lotus root.

A handful of fennel seeds, bruised in a mortar.

One dried tangerine peel for clarity.

Finished with a swirl of her homemade turmeric-laced sesame oil.

She cooked it slow. Low flame. The kind that whispered, not rushed.

Next came the side dishes:

Sautéed spinach with roasted sesame and white garlic

Pan-seared mackerel, soaked in rice wine and miso for six hours

Bamboo shoot salad with rice vinegar and pickled shallots

Light herbal jelly, made from agar, wolfberries, and snow fungus—served chilled

Lotus crisps—air-dried, flash-fried, dusted with cumin and ginger powder

The tea tonight was her own sleepy blend:

Blue lotus, lavender, rose hips, licorice root, and chamomile, steeped just warm—not boiling.

She lined everything into a smooth thermal bento, wrapped in pressed linen and sealed with a waxed cord.

It smelled faintly like late summer rain and warmth.

---

🌙 Lucien’s Wing

Lucien had been pretending to read for thirty minutes.

His shirt collar was loose, his sleeves unrolled. His hair was damp from a bath that hadn't relaxed him.

Then came the knock.

Ezra stood at the threshold—barefoot, wrapped in a cotton robe, her hair in a lazy twist, cheeks flushed lightly from the steam.

She didn’t enter.

She held the container and flask out wordlessly.

> “I adjusted the seasoning,” she said. “You were flushed this morning. Overheating. Yin imbalance.”

He blinked.

> “And you know that because…?”

She handed the flask into his hand—firm, calm.

> “Because you skipped lunch and didn’t sweat during your nap.”

Lucien opened his mouth. Then closed it. The food smelled divine.

> “Eat before it cools,” she murmured.

And turned.

But not before their hands touched. Just enough to spark.

---

🌫️ Later – Midnight

Lucien couldn’t sleep.

The food still lingered in his mouth—especially the lotus crisps. He didn’t even like lotus.

But her hands had shaped that meal.

He left his room, towel over his shoulders, shirt half-buttoned—and saw her.

Ezra stood by the hall window, holding her own tea, lit in moonlight.

The shawl slipped slightly down one shoulder, revealing smooth, clean skin. Steam curled from her teacup. Her profile—soft, serious—didn’t turn at his presence.

But she spoke.

> “You didn’t finish the tea.”

His throat tightened.

She turned. Stepped close. Held out a second cup.

> “Next time,” she said, “drink while it’s hot.”

Their fingers brushed again. The ceramic cup warm between them. The contact… lingered.

Lucien didn’t move.

She did.

Turning, walking away, robe whispering at her ankles, soft steps swallowed by old wood.

He didn’t know what to do with the cup in his hand.

Only that her fingers had burned hotter than the tea.

---

📓 [SYSTEM OUTRO – Private Gossip Log]

> 🟡 Trust: +14

🟣 Lust: +38

🔴 Emotional Confusion: +21

⚠️ New Status: “Fingertip Fever Syndrome” triggered.

System Snippets:

– “He sniffs her tea when she’s gone. Not normal.”

– “Heartbeat spike recorded when robe shifted.”

– “Warning: He almost smiled.”

– “Prediction: He’ll finish the tea. Slowly. Like a man unwrapping something forbidden.”

Next Episode Forecast:

→ Lucien’s jealousy gets its first spark.

→ Marian returns with backup.

→ Ezra’s test results arrive.

→ Nightmares… or memories?

---

© S.J.Ez. All Rights Reserved. This story is an original work of fiction created by S.J.Ez. All characters, names, places, and events are purely products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or real events is purely coincidental. No part of this work may be copied, republished, translated, or shared in any form without the written permission of the author. S.J.Ez holds full copyright and ownership of this content. Plagiarism is strictly prohibited.

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