Dusk settled over Golden Lion City as night crept in. The severed head of the Black Mountain Demon hung prominently in the square for all citizens to see. This beast had rampaged across northern Casworth for years, causing heavy casualties and losses. Its defeat brought immense relief. To celebrate, the duke’s banquet hall blazed with light. Lavish white-and-gold decor gleamed. Nobles from Casworth arrived in finery: men sipped strong spirits by tables, women whispered and laughed in clusters. Then—a horn blast. The inner court gates swung open. The protagonists entered.

Through the Observer’s vision, I watched Freud and Lilia.

As tonight’s honored guest, Lilia shone brilliantly. Her elegant gown framed meticulously styled red hair glittering with gems and pearls. A diamond necklace encircled her throat like a starry constellation. She’d shed her tomboy image completely, transformed into a storybook princess radiating grace. Beside her, Freud embodied Prince Charming. His white formalwear shimmered with gold embroidery. A crimson cape draped his left shoulder, stitched with House Northenberg’s golden lion emblem. Ice-blue hair and silver-gray eyes lent him cool composure. He guided his wife gently down the crimson-carpeted stairs.

Thunderous applause filled the hall.

Tonight belonged to Lilia. She was the star. I was merely a shadow-dweller. Stepping rashly into that light might burn me.

The workshop heater hummed steadily, yet the cold still stung my skin. Casworth winters were brutal—staying above freezing felt like mercy. I glanced at the thermometer: 5°C. Practically warm. Compared to Count Lud’s icy attic? Heaven. Even as the duke’s adopted daughter, I never felt like a true resident. Just a “guest.” Freeloading was unacceptable. A woman’s beauty, a child’s charm—they fade fast. Without proving my worth, I’d be discarded the moment interest waned. Like a broken toy. But this battle changed things. My prototype proved vital in slaying the Black Mountain Demon. Both the Chainsaw Blade and its armor passed real combat tests. My design philosophy stood validated.

Surely the duke would grant me preliminary recognition now?

Would my place here feel slightly more secure?

I… wouldn’t be cast out soon, right?

I buried the unease deep and focused on crafting the doll’s parts. I’d promised Lilia to fix her favorite “older sister” doll by dawn. Yet she knew I controlled it—still treated the doll as her closest confidante, and me as a distant younger sister. Such a double standard! One day, I’d make it move on its own. The autonomous system was complex, but with effort… I could do it.

I lifted my gaze to the workbench. The doll was nearly whole again; head repairs complete. I’d trimmed her hair to a neat chin-length bob—it suited her. A strange, tangled warmth stirred in my chest. Her face mirrored my mother Jenny’s portrait. I’ll never know if Aleister meant it that way, but the moment I saw that painting, I chose it. Fleeing House Lud, I took nothing of hers. Katherine—that bitch—had already sold every keepsake. This doll, shaped in her image, was all I had left.

Damn you, Katherine! In my past life, you left me paralyzed. This time? I’ll “repay” you properly. Wait and see. But I never expected little bitch Elizabeth to poison her half-brother Royce… while I cast his soul into hell. Poor Royce—truly cursed as a brother. His death shattered Katherine. House Saxony likely intervened; she wasn’t at the banquet tonight. Nor was Count Lud. Curious. Honestly? Good. I didn’t want to see him anyway.

“Calibration,” I activated the preset command. “Begin sync.”

Without the Psionic Headband, sync lagged—but the doll mirrored me: right hand rising, palm rotating, fist clenching, lowering slowly. Good. Control core stable. A malfunction would’ve doubled my workload.

“End sync. Stand by.”

The doll bowed her head into standby. No miniature Arcane Reactor yet—power drawn via three mithril wires from the retired exoskeleton prototype. Soon, I’d craft her a dedicated reactor. Performance would leap. Magic use? Possible.

Thud—!

The workshop’s side door shuddered. I spun around. Another dull *thump*! Sparks erupted from the hinges; rivets flew. Shit! Someone was breaking in! Everyone was at the banquet—who’d come now? I scrambled for cover. Nowhere. Hinges snapped. The door crashed inward. A middle-aged man stepped through, axe in hand, drunken grin twisting his face.

Joseph Badan.

He should still be a low-tier mage in the Duke of Northberg’s domain—obscure, unremarkable, years from founding arcane engineering. Why here? Why *now*?

“Master Badan,” I said calmly. “What brings you to my workshop so late?”

“Can’t I… admire genius?” He glared, breath reeking of liquor, then forced a smile. “Incredible! Is this ancient tech? Is *this* the core? Hahahaha! No wonder House Northenberg adopted you! This could change the world!”

He reached out, fingers brushing the cable-linked Arcane Reactor, tongue-clicking in awe.

“But wasted on the duke? No. This belongs to the Emperor! Take it to the Imperial Capital—I’ll get funding, fame! Finally escape this miserable life!”

Old tricks. In my memory, Badan was once revered. I studied under him—until he feigned partnership and stole Arcane Reactor schematics. *He* leaked the tech to the Empire. That hypocrite “mentor.”

“Joseph Badan! Here to steal my work again?”

Rage vibrated in my voice.

“Steal? Hah!” His eyes gleamed with greed. “Come with me, child. To the capital. I’ll treat you as my daughter. Pour every idea from your head into my hands—I’ll make you famous!”

“Hmph.” I sneered. “A fraud in scholar’s robes? Don’t insult me. My standing is secured by House Northenberg. I need no permission from *you*. Get out. Thief. Fraud. Never show your face here again.”

He froze. Face flushed crimson. Then—he lunged, axe swinging.

Anger blinds. *I shouldn’t have provoked him. Should’ve fled, called guards.* But Badan was drunk. The axe missed my head—*clang!*—embedding deep in the workbench. Sparks flew. I dodged clumsily, slipped, fell. He dropped the axe, pinned me down, straddled my hips, fingers crushing my throat.

“Arrogant little bitch! Die! Once you’re dead—*everything* is mine! Hahahaha! ALL MINE!”

Bloodshot eyes, feral grin. Alcohol and fury had stripped him bare.

Can’t… breathe…

Vision blurred. Struggled. Useless.

What do I do? What do I do?

Am I… going to die again?