The next morning, I woke as usual. Today was the day I’d be sent to the House of Saxony—and the day House Lude would fall. I was ready. Only deploying the Arcane Fusion Bomb remained. Yet for some reason, I still hadn’t placed it in the ventilation duct. Could I… still feel a trace of attachment to this place?

After washing up, I calmly awaited fate. My false identity and residence in Golden Lion City were secured. The escape plan was foolproof.

But at the final moment of deployment, I hesitated again.

Abandoning my meticulously crafted revenge over something so trivial? That’d be a net loss. The House of Saxony lay closer to Golden Lion City—escape would be far easier than from House Lude. Even that bitch Katherine likely wouldn’t suspect I’d flee. It was deep winter; they might mistreat me, but wouldn’t guard against escape.

Killing Father and Elizabeth instantly with the Arcane Fusion Bomb? Too lenient.

Just then, commotion erupted in the courtyard.

“Victoria, look! So many carriages!”

Chris, transformed into a black cat, perched on the windowsill and called to me. I climbed onto the desk, craning my neck downward. Five carriages, escorted by two hundred knights, rolled neatly into the castle yard. All pure black, emblazoned with the crest of the House of Northenberg. Even the coachmen wore highest-grade cotton robes—dignity written plainly on every detail.

Why would the ducal household send such an entourage?

Count Lud looked as stunned as I was. He rushed out to greet them. From the central carriage emerged a figure with a mane of pure silver. No—no, not a lion. A middle-aged man whose face echoed a lion’s ferocity. Freud’s father. The current Duke of Northberg!

Wait—the Duke came *in person*?

The previous Duke wielded the “Sword's Ocular,” one of the twelve Demon Eyes. He mastered it without succumbing to madness. On the battlefield, he cut down countless foes—once slaying six enemy knight captains in succession, shattering their entire force. A hero of the Empire.

Known far and wide as the Silver Sword Specter.

Such a titan, whose duchy spanned twenty times our Ludwig Barony and boasted three cities over fifty thousand souls… traveling to this backwater? Compared to Golden Lion City, we were nothing.

Had he come to mediate the conflict between House Lude and the House of Saxony? A chill of foreboding crept up my spine. I locked the attic door, stowed the Arcane Fusion Bomb in my Item Vault, and stayed put. I’d shared grilled skewers with the Duke before—but seeing me like *this*? My standing would plummet. I still had self-awareness.

Then—*bang!*—the attic door flew open. Two stern maidservants strode in, seized me without a word, and hauled me like a stray kitten. Dumped into an ice-cold bath. Scrubbed raw. Dressed in Elizabeth’s old clothes. Dragged to the third-floor dining room—the one directly beneath my attic.

The table gleamed under white linen. The Duke’s head butler measured each wineglass’s placement with a ruler before nodding to a junior servant. Other guests hadn’t arrived. I was deposited in the lounge like cargo. Elizabeth already waited nearby in full formal attire, flanked by maids.

“Sister Victoria,” she said smugly, “today is my engagement to young Master Freud. Please… don’t let me lose face.”

*Hah?* This little bitch marrying Freud? Chilling. A five-year-old with this much scheming depth—even with past-life memories? I’d heard Demon Eyes enhanced abilities… had hers boosted *intelligence*?

Pity. High IQ, low EQ? A dime a dozen. *Heh.*

The bathwater was freezing. Deep winter. Outside, droplets turned to ice midair. A cold dread coiled up my spine. My body was frail. Catch a chill, fall ill… I might actually die. I was just decoration for this banquet. As long as I survived until they shipped me off to the House of Saxony, no one cared if I lived or died.

Maybe my death there would even *benefit* House Lude. *Heh.*

Scum. Bastards.

Just die already.

“Please, young ladies, take your seats.”

Elizabeth’s face lit up—but she quickly smoothed her expression into that of a proper little lady and glided in at a measured pace. I followed, seated closer to Count Lud as the elder sister. Sandwiched between Father and sister. Utterly uneasy.

Once all were seated, the banquet began.

Gleaming cutlery lined both sides—each piece for one course. Imperial nobles loved ostentation: utensils used once, then whisked away. Most would panic. But under Freud’s tutelage, I’d been drilled in etiquette. *Work from the outside in.*

“A simpler set for the young miss?” a waiter asked politely.

“No, thank you.”

Count Lud was glaring. Noble children rarely attended grand banquets pre-debut—but this was an engagement feast. Still, I cared far more about the food than the ceremony. *I’m not hungry. Not hungry. Not hungry.* I forced a serene smile, playing the perfect ornament.

Thanks to the Duke’s staff replacing our incompetent lot, the spread was leagues above our usual fare. My mouth watered. But I stayed still, repeating my mantra inwardly.

“For the Empire’s prosperity and peace—raise your glasses!”

The Duke of Northberg lifted his glass. All followed. Yet… wasn’t *we* the hosts?

Servants plated the first course: raw ham wrapped around caviar. Spiced ham, briny caviar—a classic appetizer to awaken any palate. I used the outermost utensil, dividing the bite into three delicate portions. Finished, I set the utensil down; a servant cleared it instantly.

The aperitif—a faintly orange sparkling wine. I sipped to warm my icy limbs. A fleeting warmth spread… then faded.

I caught the Duke glancing my way. Sharp, assessing. I offered a slight, polite smile and set my glass down.

Next: pan-seared foie gras. Barely covering ten percent of the plate, glistening with herbs, cheese sauce, raisins—a calorie-laden gleam under the chandelier. *Exactly* what my frail body craved. I savored each tiny bite.

*Clatter.*

Elizabeth dropped her utensil. Swallowed the foie gras whole. *How?* What a waste.

“Count,” the Duke said smoothly, “your daughters are charming. Which is elder, which younger?”

A flicker of anxiety crossed Father’s face. He forced a smile. “The one beside me is Victoria, the elder. The other is Elizabeth.”

I gave a slight nod, smile intact.

*The foie gras was divine.*

Then came rich salmon seafood soup. I sipped every drop. Elizabeth dropped her utensil *again*. Even Count Lud frowned. Beside my flawless poise, her performance was pitiful.

Main course: roasted beef. Juicy, pink-centered slices beneath a lightly charred crust. Melt-in-your-mouth perfection. The steak knife was heavy for small hands—but the beef was so tender, cutting required almost no strength.

*Clatter.*

Elizabeth dropped the knife—*again*. Flustered, she activated her Beguiling Eye full force, batting her lashes desperately. Count Lud’s face softened into a foolish grin, utterly ensnared.

But the Duke of Northberg remained unmoved.

And Freud? Unaffected too.

The Duke mastered the Sword's Ocular—he’d resist a minor Beguiling Eye. But Freud?

Could he… truly possess a Demon Eye?