As Count Lud arrived in full armor, tension at the castle gate flared anew. The soldiers guarding Count of Saxony’s convoy remained indifferent—bowing respectfully to Count Lud but showing no hint of resistance. Katherine had likely hoped they’d back her. Too bad their burly, bearded captain had already read the room.

“Wench,” the Count hissed, sword flashing cold. “You insulted me, yet dare show your face? Leave. Or I’ll execute you here for infidelity.”

Katherine stepped back before the gleaming blade—but her defiance held firm.

“I’m innocent, my dear. Believe me!”

“Save that nonsense for the Duke’s judicial officers,” he snapped, unmoved. “Thomas confessed everything in the interrogation chamber. When spring comes, it ends. Leave, Katherine. Your blood would only stain my courtyard.”

With the Duke’s judiciary wielding near-absolute authority, Count Lud held victory in his grasp.

Katherine bit her lip, face pale.

*My foolish, selfish father has become Elizabeth’s lapdog. He’d never let anyone threaten his “precious daughter’s” status—even though she’s the product of Thomas’s affair with his own wife.*

Poor Royce, used as a shield, faced the sword directly, face drained of color.

“At least take responsibility for this child!”

Katherine shoved Royce toward the gate and vanished into her carriage without a glance back. The nine-year-old stood trembling before the castle gate, shivering in the biting wind. Count Lud eyed the boy—no blood relation—with pure disgust. He sighed and sheathed his sword.

“Jack,” he ordered, “lock this brat in the woodshed. Keep him alive until spring. Barely.”

“At your command, my lord.”

Ruthless Jack smirked. Count Lud had bought his loyalty with coin and rank; Jack knew his place. He’d obey—but always twist orders for his own cruel amusement. Royce would suffer terribly.

Still, I didn’t dislike Jack. A genuine villain beats a sea of hypocrites any day.

The farce amused me, but work waited. The Arcane Automaton’s calibration neared completion. The headband for the spiritual link sat ready.

Today was activation day.

I settled the headband onto my head and sank into the prepared recliner—a chair unearthed from old furniture. Brother John had carried it to my sanctuary; his strength was staggering. Chris, by contrast, was delicate as a girl. Even in human form, he couldn’t lift a thing.

Now, Chris had vanished again—his habits growing ever more cat-like.

“Connection initiating,” I murmured, channeling mana. “Enter!”

The Arcane Formula flared. My vision pulled back. Clarity returned: I gazed down at my own body lying limp on the chair. After a heartbeat’s hesitation, I realized—I now saw the world through the Automaton’s eyes. Familiar, yet different from piloting the Observer.

“Initiate self-diagnostic. Load control program.”

Holographic interfaces flickered across my vision. Ancient runes glowed—relics of the lost Precursors’ civilization, vanished mysteriously, leaving only enigmatic formulas and rusted machines slumbering in ruins.

*(Stand up!)*

I willed the body to move. Servos hummed. High-performance artificial muscles lifted me unsteadily. Limb length and height had shifted drastically; I recalibrated my balance in seconds.

Perfect. Balance stable. I took a few smooth steps.

I raised the biomimetic-skinned hand, leaned toward the chair-bound me—gray hair, gaunt frame. Pity stirred. Beside “glorious” Elizabeth, I was merely “sickly and sorrowful.” But the link was severed. I *was* the Automaton now.

Before the mirror, I studied the form: non-metallic shell, spherical joints, biomimetic skin on torso and hands. The face—beautiful, nearly identical to the portrait, as if stepped from canvas. Yet undeniably artificial.

I dressed slowly: undergarments, thigh-high stockings, black woolen skirt, white apron. A maid outfit, found untouched in the attic wardrobe—a twist of fate.

Clad, the Automaton’s aura shifted. Expressionless (I couldn’t yet control its face), it radiated cool efficiency. Deerskin boots completed the sharp, capable impression.

“Perfect,” I whispered, kissing my own forehead. “Let’s go.”

I left the sanctuary, pushed open the washroom window. Wind and snow rushed in. Beyond: the castle’s rear cliff, forest blanketed white, snow dancing under a sunless gray sky.

“Flight system, activate. FLY!”

Arcane Formulas on the back ignited. Pre-programmed circuits hummed to life—arcane engineering’s elegance: standardized, flawless.

Light wings bloomed. I closed the window, leaped. Earth surged upward. Then—lift. Forest receded. I twisted midair, soaring through swirling snow.

This… was freedom.

Ahahahaha.

Three hours later, Golden Lion City emerged. Heart of the Duchy of Northberg, oval walls encircling it. The Duke’s castle crowned the central hillock; a frozen river split the city north-south. Under snowstorm cover, I cleared the walls unseen and landed softly in a narrow alley.

Wings retracted. Snow brushed off. I opened the Item Vault, pulled the umbrella from the spatial rift. Light snow, but the umbrella elevated my guise—not every maid carried one.

Stepping onto cobblestone streets, I passed mana stone lamps on iron posts. Embedded formulas drew ambient mana, igniting light at dusk—a seamless automated system.

*Mana lamps… likely the only mass-produced arcane devices left. The Precursors’ glory reduced to these tiny witnesses. Sobering.*

*Ten years should’ve passed before I set foot here.*

But a decade early, landmarks stood unchanged. First: the Triune Church by the river—a solemn Gothic spire piercing the snow-hazed sky. Position confirmed, I turned east.

The cobblestone embankment merged with the path. From the stone railing, the frozen river stretched below. *At night, these lamps paint the banks beautifully. I once dreamed of this riverside glow… just a crippled country girl’s fantasy.*

*But I had no future.*

*I was burned to death.*

Crack!

The railing shattered. I blinked back—grip tightened unconsciously. Automaton strength dwarfed human limits. I flexed fingers. Artificial skin intact. Actuators functional.

“Time for business.”

I turned from the river. Snow crunched under boots. Wind tousled the Automaton’s practical nape-length black hair—sharp, efficient.

Ahead, a marble building rose. An ancient-style colonnade framed the entrance with false grandeur.

The Alchemists Guild. A den of frauds, fools, and fanatics.

Alchemy here branched two ways: transmuting metals, synthesizing drugs. Both utter messes. Yet genuine techniques lingered—enough for the Empire to uphold their status. Ninety-nine percent were still swindlers, peddling scraps of chemistry under a lofty title.

But for now… I needed them.

So I would join them.