Rogue returned to the manor as evening neared. His first thought was to check on Lilitha’s condition.

Though Lady Aria had said raising her obediently was enough, Rogue now believed in doing his absolute best—to present the finest Lilitha to Lady Aria.

After a sip of water, he went to the warehouse. His absence at noon seemed to affect Lilitha little; she still huddled in the corner, her dull eyes fixed on the floor.

Nothing was visible in the dimness, and she had nothing left to anticipate.

“Her spirits are still low, but manageable,” he murmured.

Confirming her state, Rogue returned to his room. He began sorting old parchment notebooks. Each prisoner once had one, but after two cells were destroyed, many died or vanished. Their notebooks now needed reclassification.

While sorting, Rogue found a notebook signed “Rogue.” His own diary. He’d kept it diligently for a long time, but gradually lost it amid busyness, abandoning the habit.

“It was mixed with others. I’d never have found it if Number One hadn’t brought everything for sorting.” He dusted it off, nostalgia warming his tired face as he opened the first page. It recorded his life after the first month at the Demon Lord Fortress, with weekly entries.

“I never realized my past self logged every trivial detail.” Rogue chuckled wryly, his exhaustion lifting slightly.

But flipping further, he froze. His expression shifted from amusement to shock, then confusion.

“Don’t trust Aria!”

—The words were carved with powerful, precise strokes, perfectly square and upright. They clashed starkly against the messy, slanted Common Human script beside them.

What script was this?

Rogue had never seen it in this world. He couldn’t trace its origin, yet sensed a nation’s confidence in the lines—a feeling that resonated deep within him.

He grabbed a quill and copied the characters. To his astonishment, his hand moved effortlessly, replicating the script almost identically. Muttering, he even pronounced the words with a strange accent.

This was truly his handwriting. But why would his diary warn against Aria?

Lady Aria had always been kind to him. He had no reason to distrust her.

His face paled. He flipped ahead. In the next dozen entries, each bore that same sentence—not written with the diary, but added later.

Rogue raised a hand toward the words. “Goddess of Wisdom, grant me the power to discern knowledge.”

His palm glowed faintly. Magic lingered on the text—a high-level suggestion spell.

Was he forcing himself to write this warning with magic?

But why distrust Aria…

The thought jolted him awake. Cold sweat trickled down his spine.

Indeed, why must he trust her?

“Suggestion magic…”

Rogue forced calm. He dared not test himself for the spell.

“If that’s true, then with my personality…” He searched his pockets. Soon, a crumpled note surfaced in his coat. Scrawled in large, uneven letters: “Don’t trust Lady Aria!”

The same unidentifiable yet familiar script. The handwriting looked recent, but he recalled writing nothing of the sort.

Blessed by the Goddess of Wisdom, Rogue invoked his divine power. The answer came swiftly: this script had never existed on this continent.

No wonder his personality would write such words without restraint.

Rogue slumped in his chair, eyes burning. He hadn’t slept in nearly three days. The sudden revelations drained him.

The nearby clock chimed, snapping him from his turmoil. Opening the door, he found Number One had prepared Lilitha’s dinner and water. He walked to the warehouse, waited for its internal clock to chime three minutes later, then pushed inside.

Light flooded the space. The sudden brightness and Rogue’s silhouette made Lilitha lift her head. Her eyes instinctively narrowed, a trace of life flickering in her previously dead gaze.

A natural reaction. Had she not stirred at all, her state would be truly alarming.

Rogue brought out a wooden tub, filled it with hot water, and added relaxing herbs to ease her into deep sleep. Constant mental strain would only hinder her conditioning.

“Lilitha, bath time.”

He lifted her. She didn’t struggle, only glancing sideways at his cheek, motionless.

Warm water enveloped her. Her body relaxed instinctively, eyes fluttering shut. Rogue washed her meticulously, ensuring every touch conveyed care—making her feel “being caressed.”

This daily contact would build dependence in her body and subconscious. Once her spirit revived and her mind sharpened, he could correct her later.

During feeding, he similarly nurtured her appetite. Only if she refused would he coax her to swallow with water.

Thus, he lingered longer than usual. After finishing, he left a warm blanket and exited.

Outside, Rogue sat in the cold wind. The herbs worked fast; Lilitha slept soundly. He frowned slightly at the untouched blanket.

Puppet Number Two rolled over, gears whirring: “Gurgle gurgle.”

Rogue rubbed his rough cheek. “You’re right. I need rest too.”

“Wake me early tomorrow.” He entered his room.

Dawn came. Number Two roused him. At the warehouse, Lilitha still slept.

He washed up. Demons already waited outside for treatment. Since Lilitha’s wake-up time was near, Rogue attended to his duties first.

Bread and water prepared, he skipped breakfast and entered Lilitha’s warehouse.