The girl’s arm was gripped by Rogue, her eyes like a pool of stagnant water, no longer resisting.

Perhaps she was exhausted. Perhaps she knew resistance was futile here—Rogue ruled everything.

Through the mimetic text visible in his eyes, Rogue noticed a new desire had surfaced in Lilitha’s needs: memories.

This didn’t surprise him.

His method wasn’t overtly violent. Its purpose was to make Lilitha "understand her reality," to crush her spirit.

He hadn’t beaten or whipped her. The only thing he’d done was strip her clothes, preparing to bathe her—though not gently.

Only after prolonged struggle, when reality became clear, had her death wish intensified.

She began escaping reality, recalling her father, remembering life on Dragon Isle.

Had he simply whipped and tortured her, the pain might have drowned out these thoughts.

Rogue’s conscience urged gentleness, but time was short. He had no experience raising pets. He had no past memories—only three years of consciousness spent in the Demon Lord Fortress, raised and taught by Lady Aria, the Demon King, now working for her.

The common sense he’d learned favored interrogation over kindness.

Lady Aria demanded results in two months. Gentle nurturing would take a year or more.

Rogue took a silent breath. Lilitha’s hope shouldn’t lie in fleeting memories—it should come from him.

He released her arm and grasped the pendant at her chest.

He knew this pendant was the source of her memories. Likely a precious gift.

At his touch, her deadened heart finally stirred.

Lilitha seized Rogue’s wrist. Tears spilled anew down her cheeks as she shook her head, pleading in her first words: "Please… don’t…"

Her voice was soft and sweet, yet hoarse. Tears traced the whip marks on her face.

She spoke in the draconic tongue. Rogue couldn’t understand the words, but he grasped her meaning.

This pendant was her only treasure. She’d endure lashes rather than lose it.

With it, she could still bargain with screams and tears—as she had with her previous mistress.

That mistress had hated her body and face. Every dawn brought beatings, inhuman torment.

Surely this man would be no different.

Rogue said nothing. He merely glanced at her hands clutching his arm, tugging the pendant harder.

His goal remained unchanged: make her understand his will was absolute. If she didn’t let go, he’d snap the chain.

He knew breaking it would shatter her last anchor. Her death wish might surge past 90%.

Yet no matter how hard he tugged, Lilitha didn’t yield. She only pleaded and struggled harder.

The mimetic text in his vision shifted—her death rate climbed.

Rogue sighed. Pushing further would break her.

He released the pendant. Lilitha clutched it fiercely, curling into the same protective ball as before.

She shrank back against the wall, though no space remained.

Rogue’s brow furrowed faintly. Expecting progress on the first day was unrealistic.

He pulled a wooden tub from his magic pouch, setting aside prepared herbs. Calling to the door, he summoned an alchemical puppet on wheeled feet.

"Prepare these herbs," he ordered. Ignoring Lilitha’s fearful gaze, he stood before the tub. Left hand gripping his right arm, he raised a single palm.

"In the name of the Goddess of Nature—water!"

Magic required incantations. Greater spells demanded longer chants. That was the world’s law.

Blessed by the elven Goddess of Nature, Rogue could wield nature magic.

He hid secrets, too: he needed no chants. And his blessings weren’t limited to one goddess.

He kept these truths buried. A human in the Demon Lord Fortress had no reason to boast.

Water filled the tub. Rogue poured in the puppet’s herbal infusion, turning the liquid murky green.

He gestured to Lilitha, then the tub.

She didn’t move, frozen in her corner. Rogue lifted her and placed her inside.

The icy water made her shiver. It likely stung her wounds; she winced in pain.

She struggled—not to escape, but instinctively rejecting what she couldn’t control.

Rogue ignored her. He’d cooled the water deliberately. For unhealed wounds, cold was safer than heat.

Expressionless, he poured water over her until her silver hair clung wetly to her skin. Only then did he begin washing her.

He scrubbed every filthy patch, every wound. Master-pet physical contact was crucial. In this terrifying limbo, it implanted the subconscious notion that her body no longer belonged to herself.

Yet near her wounds, his touch grew careful, almost gentle. The herbs’ effects spread. Pain faded into tingling warmth. Lilitha squirmed again, unsettled.

Fifteen minutes later, Rogue finished. He sent the puppet to dispose of the tub and filthy water, then turned back to Lilitha.

Cleaned, she revealed the beauty of an ordinary girl—ignoring the scars.

Delicate features, a petite nose, striking crimson eyes paired with waist-length silver hair. Her figure was slight; by human reckoning, she was only thirteen or fourteen.

Her visible frailty dimmed her radiance.

After healing, Rogue imagined, Lilitha would become a beauty capable of stirring nobles with twisted tastes.

He called her name in the common tongue. No reaction. She only shrank back, eyes fixed on him.

He hadn’t expected one. Language barriers mattered little now. He merely wanted her to memorize the sound—for future "training."

He produced a loaf of bread. Lilitha’s hungry gaze flickered.

As punishment, he tore off half before her eyes. He tossed it, along with a small waterskin, onto the straw bedding.

Next came a coarse cloth barely large enough to cover her. Without a backward glance, Rogue left the storeroom.

The door shut. Darkness swallowed the room once more.