“I don’t care.”
“Don’t even think about sleeping tonight.”
That promise was fulfilled quite thoroughly.
As the sky was just beginning to brighten, the door to the master bedroom opened.
Tia stepped out.
Her apron was tied neatly. Her silver curls were pulled back and secured with a simple hairband. Her steps were light, and she hummed a little tune she had picked up from somewhere.
She looked absolutely radiant.
The superiority of a Mithril body was on full display at this moment—no need for sleep, no fatigue, and infinite physical endurance.
As she went downstairs, every step had a subtle bounce to it.
The kitchen door was pushed open. The stove was lit. The sound of a spatula clattering against the bottom of a pan drifted up from the first floor, mixed with the sizzling sound of eggs being scrambled.
Five minutes later.
The door to the master bedroom cracked open again.
Bell’s hand rested on the doorframe.
His knuckles were pale.
His right foot stepped out and landed on the floor. His knee buckled, and he almost failed to support himself. His left hand gripped the stair railing tightly, his joints letting out a faint creaking sound.
From the master bedroom to the top of the stairs, it was only seven steps.
It took him nearly half a minute.
He wasn’t exactly walking; he was shuffling.
Every step on the floor felt strangely hollow, and the muscles on the inside of his thighs were shaking continuously. This young body, which had survived countless magical beast hunts and high-intensity battles, couldn’t even handle a flight of stairs properly right now.
What exactly had Tia done to him?
No, to be precise—how many times exactly had Tia done it to him?
Bell didn't have the energy to recall. The area of his cerebral cortex responsible for memory had gone on strike at some point in the middle of the night. His cognition held only fragmented images: the temperature of Mithril fingers, the tingling sensation when the runes lit up, and Tia’s profile as she bit her lower lip.
And that repeatedly whispered phrase: “It’s not over yet, more.”
Bell held onto the railing.
He ground his way down, one step at a time.
As he reached the landing of the stairs, he caught a glimpse of the living room from the corner of his eye.
Cecilia was sitting on the sofa.
Her posture was perfect. Her legs were together, and her hands were folded over her knees. Her blonde hair was combed meticulously and tied with a black satin ribbon.
She had been up for a long time.
She might not have slept all night.
Cecilia saw Bell’s figure on the stairs.
First, she looked at his legs.
Those legs that once moved with such agility on the battlefield were now trembling with every step. His knees were buckling inward slightly, and his center of gravity was clearly unstable.
Then, she looked at his face.
Deep dark circles shadowed his eyes, and his lips were dry and cracked. The entire man exuded a sense of being completely drained and haggard.
Finally.
The sound of footsteps came from the kitchen. Tia walked out carrying a glass of warm milk, passing through the living room.
A scent drifted from Tia’s body.
It wasn’t the cold, metallic smell of Mithril. It wasn’t the greasy smell of the kitchen.
It was Bell’s.
It was intense, lingering on her skin and soaking into the fibers of her clothes. It was an aura belonging to Bell Lucas, radiating from her inside and out.
Cecilia’s pupils constricted violently.
The hands folded on her knees twitched. Her nails dug into the skin on the back of her hands, and blood began to seep out.
Without mana, her wounds would not heal instantly.
Blood flowed from the back of her hands into the gaps between her fingers, dripping onto her white skirt. One drop. Two drops.
Her lips began to quiver.
Her gaze moved from Tia’s back to Bell on the stairs, then back to Tia.
Across hundreds of loops.
Brother was hers.
Only hers.
No other woman could touch him. Anyone who got close had been thoroughly disposed of.
Now, another woman was walking around in front of her, covered in his scent. And that woman looked full of energy and radiant.
An extremely faint, broken gasp escaped Cecilia’s throat.
Something was surging up in her chest.
It wasn’t mana.
It was pure, physiological nausea.
Jealousy and humiliation stirred together, turning into a wave of acid that slammed into her stomach wall. Her body arched slightly, and her abdominal muscles tightened uncontrollably.
But she endured it.
Gritting her teeth, she forced that churning sensation back down.
Tia handed the milk to Bell.
“Walk slowly.”
Bell took the glass and took a sip. The warm liquid slid down his dry throat.
He turned his head.
His gaze fell upon Cecilia on the sofa.
He saw the bloodstains on her skirt. He saw the nail marks on the back of her hands. He saw that pale face, slightly distorted from extreme suppression.
There was no ripple in Bell’s mind.
Three days ago, in the ruins of the secret chamber.
It was this same woman who had ridden him, amidst the pool of blood and shredded flesh, right next to Valentine’s corpse, treating him like an object.
That suffocating feeling of being stripped of all dignity.
Now it’s your turn.
Bell held the milk and slowly walked down the last few steps. As he passed in front of Cecilia, he did not pause.
However, the moment he passed directly in front of her, he straightened his back slightly.
It wasn’t intentional.
It was a subconscious declaration of sorts.
Cecilia stared at his back. Her red irises were abnormally dull in the gray morning light.
She had no mana.
She couldn’t even produce a single spark.
She could do nothing.
...
The Royal Capital. Seven floors underground.
The core council chamber of the White Tower Society.
There were no windows. The lighting came from ghostly blue ores embedded in the walls. The light from the ores hit the long table, whose surface was made of basalt, polished to a mirror-like finish.
“Moon Phase City is completely destroyed.”
A liaison officer in gray robes knelt before the table, holding a stack of parchment. The edges of the paper were wrinkled from the sweat of his hands.
“The withered husk tide went out of control. After Salomos descended, it was taken away by the Star Dragon King.” The officer paused, sweat dripping down his forehead.
At the head of the long table.
In the shadows.
A pair of ghostly blue eyes glowed in the darkness.
Xuan Shi.
The First Councilor of the White Tower Society.
He did not speak. His index finger tapped lightly on the table. The light from the ores did not reach his face; only the outline of his chin emerged from the darkness. It was gaunt, with unnaturally hard lines.
“And the child?”
The liaison officer flipped through the parchment.
“Cecilia Lucas. The World Tree Heart has been stripped. The Blood Dance Tattoo has been transferred into a strange species. Her entire mana circuit was personally sealed by Leovet.”
A pause.
“Currently... she is an ordinary person without any mana.”
There was no movement in the shadows.
Silence lasted for five seconds.
“Useless.”
Xuan Shi spat out the word.
Across the table, in the second chair, a figure in red robes leaned forward.
From under the red hood, a gaunt face was revealed. Wrinkles were squeezed together in a chaotic mess, and his lips were extremely thin. When he smiled, the corners of his mouth pulled back to reveal yellowed teeth.
“One can’t say she’s entirely useless.”
The red-robed councilor’s voice was cold, carrying a musty smell of having stayed in a damp cellar for too long.
“Her power is gone, but her mind remains. Her information database isn’t something just anyone has.”
He extended a finger and drew a circle on the table.
“However, since she is already a spent pawn, staying on the board only takes up space.”
“Why not...”
The curve of his mouth widened further.
“Send her out.”
Xuan Shi’s finger stopped.
“Second Prince Thorne has coveted her for more than a year or two,” the red-robed councilor leaned back. “Every time, we were the ones who stepped in to block him. Now—”
He spread his hands.
“Block what? With what? She can’t even light a flame anymore. Sending her to Thorne will help ease our relationship with the royal family. A losing deal becomes a convenient favor.”
“It’s a win.”
The ghostly blue eyes in the shadows slowly shifted toward the red-robed councilor.
Three seconds.
“See to it.”
...
Three days later.
The Duke Lucas estate.
Early morning.
The sound of horses’ hooves in the courtyard startled everyone.
These weren’t ordinary hoofbeats. The rhythm of metal horseshoes striking the cobblestone road was very orderly and disciplined—the marching style of a trained army.
Bell set down his teacup and walked to the window.
A squad of knights had stopped before the iron gates of the Duke’s estate.
They wore silver full-plate armor, with the royal crest of a double-headed eagle engraved on their chests. Purple tassels hung from each horse’s tack.
The Royal Guard.
“Young Master,” the butler walked in quickly. “Messengers from the royal family have arrived.”
Bell had already seen them.
The lead knight dismounted and took a brocade box from his saddlebag. He opened it, revealing a roll of parchment sealed with purple wax.
The seal was stamped with the double-headed eagle.
The specifications of an official state letter.
Duke Elisk Lucas walked out of his study. His shirt buttons were fastened to the very top, and his expression was a standard noble mask—neither happy nor angry.
The butler opened the door.
The knight captain stepped into the foyer and knelt on one knee, holding the scroll high above his head with both hands.
“His Highness Aster Thorne sends his most sincere regards to His Grace, Duke Lucas.”
Standard court phrasing.
“His Highness humbly requests to enter into a marriage union with your daughter, Lady Cecilia Lucas.”
A marriage proposal.
The butler took the scroll and handed it to Elisk.
The Duke unfurled the scroll and scanned it.
The cursive script on the parchment was beautiful, and the flowery language was perfectly arranged, praising Cecilia’s talent and beauty while expressing Prince Thorne’s long-standing admiration.
Not a single word in the letter mentioned mana.
This wasn’t a proposal.
It was a claim.
Bell stood at the corner of the second-floor hallway, looking down.
In the shadows of the staircase landing, a slender figure leaned against the wall.
Cecilia.
Her face changed the moment she heard the name “Thorne.”
It wasn’t anger. It wasn’t shock.
It was the color draining from her face, layer by layer—from her cheeks to her lips to her eyes. Within three seconds, her entire face had turned the color of paper.
Thorne.
The White Tower Society.
They had abandoned her.
The habitual cognition from hundreds of loops shattered at this moment. Before, the White Tower Society needed her. They needed the information in her head. They needed the World Tree Heart in her body. They needed her all-element instantaneous combat power. Thorne’s toad-like hands could never reach her.
Now.
Everything was gone.
She was an empty shell, an ordinary girl without mana.
The logic of the White Tower Society was very simple—protect useful pawns, discard useless ones. They could even be used as bargaining chips.
And Thorne.
That Second Prince.
Cecilia’s stomach cramped violently.
Thorne’s face floated into her mind. Across hundreds of loops, she had seen Thorne countless times. Greasy fingers. Greedy little eyes. A wet smile that always made one’s skin crawl.
The way he looked at women.
It was exactly the same way one looked at livestock.
No.
Impossible.
She was Cecilia Lucas, a being who had crossed hundreds of loops. She controlled everything. She dominated everything. She was omniscient and omnipotent.
How could she be treated like merchandise—
Her stomach wall constricted violently again.
Acid surged up her esophagus and choked her windpipe.
“Ugh—”
She covered her mouth and doubled over.
Dry heaving.
She couldn't throw anything up. She hadn't eaten a bite since last night. There was only thin acid in her stomach. Her shoulder blades protruded from her back as she curled into a ball. Tears squeezed out from the corners of her eyes—not from crying, but from the instinctive physiological reaction to vomiting.
Hurried footsteps came from upstairs.
Eleanor ran over from the hallway, holding up her skirts.
“Cecilia!”
She knelt down, her palm pressing against Cecilia’s back, patting her gently.
“What’s wrong? Are you feeling unwell?”
Cecilia’s hand covered her mouth tightly. Intermittent sounds of dry heaving leaked through her fingers. Tears blurred her entire face.
Bell stood at the other end of the second-floor hallway.
Leaning against the wall with his hands in his pockets.
He looked down.
That once-haughty demon. That madwoman who had pinned him down in the ruins of the secret chamber to do as she pleased. That monster who had killed countless people and destroyed countless worlds.
She was now crouching at the corner of the stairs.
Covering her mouth and dry heaving.
Trembling all over.
Driven to vomiting by a single marriage proposal.
The corners of Bell’s mouth pulled upward slightly.
The movement was small.
But that sense of gratification seeping from deep within his teeth was real and burning.
He did not go downstairs.
He did not make a sound.
He just watched quietly.
Savoring this image.
...
“This is sudden.”
Duke Elisk Lucas placed the scroll back into the brocade box. The expression on his face was even more solemn than when he was reading it.
“Please inform His Highness that the Lucas family needs time to deliberate. A formal response will be submitted to the court within a few days.”
The knight captain stood up.
“Your Grace, His Highness said... he hopes to receive good news as soon as possible.”
“A few days,” Elisk repeated. He did not say it a third time.
The knight captain saluted and exited the foyer. The sound of horse hooves grew distant.
The door closed.
The air in the Duke’s estate sank to freezing point.
...
Late at night.
Bell’s room.
Tia sat on the edge of the bed, her hands resting on her knees.
“What do you plan to do?”
Bell had his back to her, standing by the window. The moonlight from outside spilled over his shoulders.
He did not answer immediately.
The tactical simulation automatically started.
Option one: Block the marriage for Cecilia. Use the power of the Duke Lucas family to suppress Thorne. Result—she would still remain in this mansion. She would still live next door. She would still breathe the same air every day.
The debt would not be cleared.
Option two: Do not intervene. Let the marriage proceed. Cecilia becomes the Second Prince’s wife. She moves far away from the Duke’s estate, far away from his life.
He hadn't met the Second Prince, but it seemed Cecilia disliked him very much.
Pity her?
The images of the secret chamber ruins flashed by.
No.
No pity.
Not even a shred of it.
Option three—
Bell turned around.
The moonlight illuminated half of his face, while the other half remained hidden in the darkness.
“She must taste the fruit of the seeds she sowed.”
Tia looked up.
Bell walked to the bed and sat down beside her.
“Not only will I not stop this marriage.”
He lowered his head and methodically tightened his cuffs. His movements were steady, without any trembling.
“I’m going to give her a push.”
Tia looked at his profile.
Silence lasted for three seconds.
Then she reached out and took hold of his fingers.
“Okay.”
No dissuasion. No mercy.
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