"Me, Anna Kablin, and your little maid at home, who would you choose as the prettiest?"

"Moen Campbell, who will you pick?"

Celicia's voice was soft and graceful, carrying a trace of charm that didn't seem to belong to her, as her water-filled spring-like eyes alternated between moments of confusion and daze.

Her breath carried the faint scent of alcohol mixed with orchid fragrance, teasing and stirring one's heartstrings.

But.

Listening to Celicia's words, Moen couldn’t indulge in these fleeting charms.

He was devastated.

He was anguished.

He was trembling.

Tears streamed down his face.

Why?

Could someone please tell him why!

Why do they keep asking these soul-torturing questions?

What's the point of asking questions that only create unnecessary tension?

Why not pursue peace?

Why not aim for harmony?

Why not embrace understanding?

Why must there always be a contest for supremacy?

Wouldn’t it be wonderful if everyone could happily coexist as my wings supporting me?

I just want peace for this world, for everyone to find their happiness—where is the fault in that?

"Hurry… answer me."

Celicia urged, as her fingers toyed with the ice-crystal long sword in her hand, casually twirling it in an almost lethargic manner, as though the blade might slip away at any moment.

Yet, as her uncalculated movements continued, clear sword marks appeared, brushing past Moen's edges onto the door, walls, and floor, decorating the surroundings with deep etches.

Each stroke caused Moen to vividly envision the goldfish he'd accidentally overfed in his childhood, now gleefully waving at him from the other side of the River Styx.

"I…"

"Let me make something clear first. I won’t accept any 'tied for first place' options," Celicia added.

Why, oh why, did she have to turn sharp and clever at such moments!

"Is that so?"

Moen swallowed down the excuses he had just prepared, glanced at the recording stone in Celicia's hand, took a deep breath, and spoke:

"It seems I've got no choice but to make a decision, huh?"

"Indeed."

Celicia bent her head slightly, anticipation blooming on her face.

"Come on, say it."

"I choose..."

Moen locked eyes with Celicia, his expression resolute beyond measure.

Then, he spoke the fateful answer.

"I choose—death!"

"Huh?"

Before Celicia could process his declaration, Moen abruptly raised his fist with sudden determination.

And punched himself.

With that powerful blow, coupled with deliberately induced mental shock, Moen spun three times mid-air before barreling toward the opposite wall, scraping past the doorframe, and finally collapsing against the structure.

He passed out instantly.

The room fell silent again.

Looking at Moen, who had knocked himself unconscious with one punch, Celicia’s lips parted slightly as she blinked in bewilderment, her drunkenly muddled mind failing to comprehend the situation. Her expression became adorably dazed.

Sadly, Moen wasn’t able to witness this.

---

In the darkness, a light emerged.

A familiar grand judge sat high above, slamming the wooden gavel in his hand.

"I hereby declare Moen Campbell guilty on charges of flirting with multiple women along, deceitful sweet-talking, insincerity, royal desecration, and ultimate scumbaggery! He is sentenced to immediate execution!"

"Execution! Execution! Execution!"

The jury enthusiastically thumped their tables, their unified chanting resounding like thunder. Moen’s oh-so-recognizable lawyer named Ariel cheered excitedly, pounding the desk with sheer ferocity:

"Finish him! Finish him!"

"Wait!"

Moen frantically tried to plead his case, "Let me explain! I am not a scumbag! I’m not!"

But it was too late. In the blink of an eye, the scenario shifted dramatically, the grand judge and jury vanished, and Moen found himself standing atop an execution platform.

The execution stage lacked guillotine blades and nooses.

Instead, three girls emerged slowly from the shadows.

"Young Master, I'm so hurt? Why didn’t you choose me?"

"Junior, were all the words from before just lies?"

"Moen Campbell, are you going to disregard our marriage agreement?"

The girls’ faces were filled with sorrow, their hands clasping brandished, shimmering machetes.

"Wait, let me explain! Let me explain!"

Moen backed away in panic. However, there was no escape behind him.

The girls, holding their machetes, moved closer step by step. Their blurred faces seemed to glisten with falling tears.

"Since... Since you can't make a decision, we’ll have no choice but to make one ourselves."

"W-what decision?"

"We’ve decided to fulfill your wish and live peacefully together..."

"That’s wonderful! That’s great news!"

"Peacefully by slicing you evenly among us."

Moen’s face froze on the spot. The next moment, he watched as three glinting machetes descended simultaneously toward him.

In his final moments, Moen’s mind had room for only one thought:

Machetes freezing against your skin are absurdly cold!

---

"I’m not a scumbag! I’m not!"

Moen let out a terrified cry as he jolted awake.

Fortunately, there were no machetes in sight, only the unfamiliar ceiling above him.

"This…"

Moen paused for a moment before cheering in exhilaration, "It’s morning! I don’t have to endure this torment anymore!"

"Hic… What morning?" A familiar voice replied.

Moen’s jubilant expression froze in place. Slowly turning his neck, each movement creaked like grinding bones.

The familiar scene met his gaze once more.

The same room, the same candlelight, and the same intoxicated princess as before. It seemed nothing had changed.

And there he was, perched on the single bed in the room, staring into Celicia’s bleary eyes as she half-hovered by the bedside.

"How… How long was I out?"

"How… long were you out?"

Celicia tilted her head, counting on her fingers one by one before holding up three:

"You were out for five minutes."

"Five minutes?!"

Moen’s expression twitched.

That doesn’t add up. He’d punched himself hard enough to ensure he’d remain unconscious till morning!

If he couldn’t even ensure such precise control, what was the point of those times he spent in the Black Book training through relentless torment?

"Did you do something, Celicia?"

"I healed you, of course," Celicia chirped, her fingertips emitting a gentle green light, which quickly shifted to ice blue.

"And I conveniently woke you up yap."

"…"

Moen’s lips twitched upon seeing this. No wonder the machetes felt icy—this was entirely her doing.

"Wait, hang on."

At that moment, Moen noticed something off.

Celicia’s face seemed redder.

And what was that cute, playful tone when she ended her words with "yap"?

Trembling, Moen extended a single finger and asked:

"Celicia, what’s this?"

"This is…"

Celicia swayed unsteadily, leaning forward to closely inspect his finger for quite some time, then firmly concluded:

"Three!"

Then, staring at Moen, she placed her finger against her slightly parted lips, murmuring dazedly:

"Wait, Moen Campbell. Since when did you learn duplication magic yap?"

Disaster. She was even drunker now.

But why? Weren’t people supposed to gradually sober up with time? How was the opposite even possible?

Moen slowly lowered his gaze.

Finally, as Celicia moved upright, Moen saw the object she’d been inadvertently leaning on all this time.

That gift box.

At this point, the exquisite gift box holding rows of chocolates had at least half of its compartments empty.

Darkness passed over Moen’s eyes.

One piece had caused her earlier terrifying display—now, with over a dozen consumed…

I'm doomed!