Slanted sunlight bathed the afternoon garden as cicadas chirped incessantly beyond the window. I’d napped through the hottest two hours of noon—last night’s pain had kept me awake until the wee hours, and this morning I’d spent hours concentrating on crafting the Observer. Rest was essential.

“Time for a walk.”

“Hmph. Do you even remember how to walk? You were *so* skilled shuffling around on your hands.”

The black cat sprawled on the sofa cushion shot me a sarcastic remark. This demon who called himself “Chris” was my contract master—terribly unforthcoming. He clearly worried about me but refused to say it. A textbook tsundere.

Annoying as a tsundere demon might be, he was still better than the “enemies” lurking outside.

I grabbed my crutch, tucked it under my arm, and struggled upright. Slowly, I lowered my splint-bound right foot. A slight ache pulsed in my ankle. So it wasn’t just my shin—my ankle was hurt too. That doctor was absurdly careless. Even a vet wouldn’t treat a cat or dog this sloppily.

I took a tentative step. My leg obeyed my will—it *moved*! After more than a decade, I could walk on my own two feet again. Tears of joy welled up uncontrollably.

“Take it easy, Victoria,” the black cat said. “You need rest.”

“No. I’m walking. Right now.”

“Come back! You’re not a child!”

“I *am* a child! I’m just six!”

I limped to the door and shoved it open. Unlike my dim room, the corridor blazed with light. Brass lamp holders inlaid with patterns gleamed, casting a soft cyan glow. These “Mana Stone Lamps” were relics of the Ancients—one of the few arcane devices humanity could still produce.

Later, I’d develop the Arcane Reactor, granting the Empire near-limitless energy. The blueprints remained perfectly preserved in my memory. If Chris lent me his magic, I could build it today.

But not now. Revealing it now? I’d likely lose my limbs, be caged like a “classified document” in the Imperial National Library—never seeing daylight again.

Count Lud’s manor was a beautiful three-story building, growing more lavish upward. The Count’s family lived on the third floor: bright rooms, an ornate study, a grand banquet hall. They lived happily there—naturally, excluding me. My room was on the ground floor, where servants stayed, next to the kitchen. Originally a storage closet. Small windows, thick cold walls, perpetual gloom—all to bear the weight above.

Since my mother’s passing, I’d lived here. Even the maids assigned to me treated me with cold indifference.

“Miss! You’re out? I heard you fell down the stairs—your leg’s alright?”

Kindness wasn’t entirely absent. Like this cheerful fool greeting me: John, the gardener’s son. A typical Casworth boy, around twelve, radiating sunshine. Though I hardly looked like the Count’s daughter—whispered to be a bastard—I never saw judgment in his eyes. He probably saw me as a much younger sister.

“My dad picked persimmons from the mountain. Want one?”

As usual, John brought wild fruit. Small, unripe, nothing like the Count’s table—but to my younger self, a rare treasure. But I wasn’t that child anymore. I didn’t reach for it. I looked up, studying the mud-streaked cheeks of his face.

“Uh… Miss? Something on my face?”

Yes. The “look of death.”

You’ll die next month. Break Elizabeth’s favorite red glazed flowerpot, endure Lady Katherine’s whipping, succumb to infection. Casworth stayed desperately poor—no proper clinics. Here, the poor simply died.

So John died. Just like me.

“Brother John,” I said softly, “Elizabeth bought a red glazed flowerpot. Very beautiful. But *please*—don’t touch it. No matter what. Promise me, and I’ll eat your persimmon.”

John blinked in confusion (“???”), then grinned.

“If it’s the young lady’s order, this humble servant obeys.”

“I’ll take it. Hehe.”

I wiped the persimmon on my dress and bit in. Tart-sweet juice burst forth. No wonder village kids loved wild persimmons—they dried into even sweeter cakes. As I savored it, a malicious shadow loomed behind me.

A shove. I tumbled into the mud, undignified and filthy.

“I defeated the demon! Hahaha!” Elizabeth cheered like a hero. Beside her stood Royce—tall, cold-faced. Her brother. Katherine’s son. My stepmother schemed relentlessly to erase me so *he* could inherit Count Lud’s title.

He’d get it. And inherit a hollowed-out, debt-ridden ruin.

What a pitiful fool.

“Miss, are you alright?” John rushed to help me up.

Royce kicked me hard in the stomach, slamming me back into the mud.

“If you’re getting muddy,” he sneered, “both sides should be *properly* coated.”

“Wowie! Brother’s so strong!” Elizabeth cheered.

Royce smirked. I sat stranded.

“Hey, young master! Isn’t the young lady your sister too?”

“Get lost, peasant. You’re not worthy to speak to me.”

“You—!”

John lunged. *Worse than breaking a pot!* I’d tried to save him—only to doom him further.

*No!*

*(Observer! Set target—full speed ahead!)*

“Gwah—!”

A transparent shadow slammed John’s nose. He collapsed beside me, blood streaming. The Observer wasn’t a combat golem—but toppling a twelve-year-old? Easy. Elizabeth and Royce stared, baffled. Then their eyes met mine. Fear flickered.

“Liz, let’s go. Snack time.”

“O-Okay, Brother… the demon’s scary…”

They strutted off. John lay dazed, nose bleeding. I tried lifting him—couldn’t. Then—a bald head shiny as a boiled egg popped from the flowerbed. Kent, John’s father.

“John! Slacking again?”

“No, Dad! The young master hit me!”

“Hmph. Excuses. Back to work!”

“Yes, Dad.” Brother John helped me up. “Sorry, Miss. Gotta go.”

“It’s fine, Brother John. Go ahead.”

After they left, I leaned on my crutch. Wind rustled the leaves. Dappled light glittered on my muddy dress like tiny suns.

“Truly… unlucky…”

I brushed the mud—useless. Had to dry first. Through the Observer’s vision, I watched myself swatting dirt. Suddenly hilarious. Suddenly heartbreaking. *This* was my childhood: wheelchair-bound, bullied by those two, forced to smile and flatter.

*Not this life. Never again.*

“Shall I kill them?” Chris’s whisper slithered into my ear. “A moment’s work. Brand them—souls become mine.”

I turned slowly. Behind the tree stood the golden-eyed youth: flowing blond hair, white robe edged in gold. Without knowing him, I’d mistake him for a foreign prince.

Prince Charming’s charm meant nothing to me now.

“No. Not yet.” I smiled coldly. “The show’s just beginning, Chris. Take a front-row seat. Watch my revenge.”

*Thud!*

My back hit bark. His gloved hand pinned the trunk beside my head. “Wall pin” pose. Noses nearly touching. His breath—cold as winter’s sharpest wind.

“Let me kill them. Complete your sacrifice. Now. Immediately.”

I held his golden gaze. Unflinching.

“Revenge is vintage wine—it needs time to sweeten.” I gently looped my arms around his neck. “Taking their lives won’t fill my rage or emptiness. They deserve *fitting* punishment—not a quick death. Do you think I can’t slaughter everyone here? Why trouble *you*?”

Exactly. I could end them all. Effortlessly.

Golden-eyed demon… why help me?

Just for my soul?

I don’t believe it.