Reclusive Master Novels & Stories

This is even more making me thirst for more clues. My hunches are beginning to contrive an idea that there might be some kind of secret passage around here that connects to another place in this household for the Master to go to. This Study can't just be the only place he'd stuck his lame-booty on just to isolate himself from his servants of course. Knowing how ill-tempered he can be, the master seems to be the type of person who can't hold on staying at one place forever.

Count, he knew for a long time and is a witness not as a traitor, but as a senior eternal , the master by his name is a Spanish robber who for lack of money robbed, killed, and in the meantime learned to wield his sword, came to London with evil thoughts plot your murder and without your knowledge as an ordinary servant he makes up his mind with a vile plan, I prevent all this because I have been following his bad intentions for several months. The king fell as if he had fallen to the throne, the duke whiter than the purest white, his lips had faded, his eyes seemed fixed on a distinct spot on the marble, and the count kept the utmost calm of a witness deep in his thoughts, the knight of Pyl

I walked to the table and accidentally dropped the folders as I saw a man's silhouette caused by the light coming through the glass windows. The light got switched on, and my eyes adjusted to its brightness. I looked up at the man holding the remote control light switch. He was tall and seemed to have a good social standing because of his clothes and posture. His fair and flawless white skin was surprisingly hot and attractive for a man—a drop-dead gorgeous man with his dark brown eyes scrutinizing me. And then I realized that his face resembled the late president's. "Who are you?" he asked in a deep masculine voice, sending me a jolt of fear.

He couldn't sense the speaker, couldn't locate them in the bustling scene. "Who?!" he exclaimed, his voice a strained whisper, laced with apprehension. From the corner of the mansion, a figure emerged, cloaked in shadow. It moved with a slow, deliberate grace, gliding towards Miron like a phantom. As it drew closer, the figure slowly pulled back its hood, revealing a face etched with wisdom and experience. "Grandmaster—" Miron began, his hand instinctively reaching out to bow in respect. But before he could utter another word, Zikk, his grandmaster, clamped a hand over his mouth, silencing him with a swift, decisive gesture.

"Thank you, Mistress. I have a little help here and there. Taking care of this place is something I love, and I feel lucky to have gotten the chance to do this." His eyes clearly displayed his sincere adoration, and the warmth he displayed made Sihyeon want to communicate with the man more. "Although I wasn't able to go through the entire place, this is lovely. Thanks to you, Mr. Jung, I got am opportunity to see this place," she spoke out. "You are giving me too much credit," he said, "This garden existed from a long time and holds the childhood of the Master. Even Master's father grew up at here."

The man just loved putting himself on a pedestal. We reached his private quarters and Maren held up a halting hand. "When you return, get back to me. There is something I need you to do." "Yes, Master Maren." There was a slave girl waiting at the door. She looked washed up the same way I was. And she was very pretty too. "Wait here until you are called," Maren instructed and left. We said nothing to each other until the door opened for us to enter. Lord Kael was waiting for us. He was wearing an unbuttoned red robe and pants. And on his right, was his visitor, who gleefully chuckled when he saw us.

Still, seeing everyone casually talking about Terrence made me realize something. They weren't afraid of him. Concerned? Yes. Frustrated? Definitely. But not afraid. As if beneath all his anger and terrible attitude, they still cared about him. The realization stayed with me. Maybe Uncle Hector was right. Maybe Young Master wasn't a bad person. Just a lonely one. Madame Beatrice cleared her throat. The conversation instantly stopped. She walked toward a nearby desk and retrieved an envelope before returning to me. "Take this." I accepted it carefully.

He was dressed down today—jeans and a soft navy sweater—looking every bit like a normal citizen enjoying the park. “Do you just haunt galleries and parks, or do you have an office?” I asked, trying to keep my heart from racing. “I live nearby,” he lied—or maybe he didn’t. With Julian, everything felt like a half-truth. “And I couldn’t help but notice you’re using the old Vermon style. Your grandfather used to say that ‘the secret to light is knowing where the dark is hiding.’ You’ve captured that perfectly.” I froze, my charcoal pencil hovering over the page. “My grandfather never published his techniques. How do you know that quote?”

A flush crept up his neck. He took my hand, leading me to the master suite—a room so vast it dwarfed any I’d ever seen. “It’s enormous, Brucha.” “Wait until you see the one in the new house.” “New house?” “Ten meters away. Still a secret.” I raised a brow. “Secrets now? Your apprenticeship in mischief is advancing. Who’s the master?” His laughter echoed. “I keep some things to myself.” “I see.” I feigned surprise, ready to needle him further.

He asked, his tone dripping with authority. Jasmine titled her head slightly, chin raised to sophistication. “Where I go is non of your business, Mr master,” Mr Master? Jerald’s brows twitched slightly, amusement tugging at his invisible expression. She was back with a sharp tone. What a sweet name. Mr Master. His lips twitched softly, curling into a deadly smirk wrapped in seduction. His hand rose, moving closer to her face. Jasmine stilled as his fingers hovered only an ich away from her face.