The Hidden Eye
Ten minutes later, another knock thudded against the heavy oak of the study door.
Leon, now behind the desk, straightened like nothing had happened—like he hadn't just spent the last hour sinking into Aria's body and losing himself in something that definitely wasn't paperwork. His golden eyes drifted across a stack of city documents with this bored sort of nobility, posture stiff and proper, like a man dutifully immersed in matters of state.
Behind him, Aria stood tall—her silver-blonde hair freshly tied, uniform pristine again. Her face was blank, like carved marble, but if you looked close enough… there it was. That faint flush still clinging to her porcelain cheeks, that quiet heat she hadn't quite shaken off. She'd cleaned up everything—the room, herself, him. And now she stood like the perfect secretary. Perfect… except for the way her fingers trembled just a little behind her back.
Leon cleared his throat. "Let them in."
The old door creaked open.
A tall, wiry man stepped through, brown robe hanging loose off a frame that looked like it hadn't seen a full meal in weeks. Gaunt face, sharp cheekbones, and eyes that scanned the study like they were counting shadows. His short black hair stuck up at odd angles—messy, careless—but the gleam in his eyes said this man missed nothing.
Leon's gaze narrowed slightly. He sifted through the memories of the former Duke like flipping through dusty pages, hunting for a name.
And there it was.
The man dropped to one knee, fist pressed over his chest in a formal salute.
"Your Grace," he said, voice low, respectful. "Ronan greets you."
Ronan…
Leon remembered now. Not just a name. A ghost from the past life.
He'd been one of the former Leon's closest—quiet, invisible, deadly. Officially, he ran a modest tavern tucked in the belly of the city—The Moon's Shadow. Unofficially? He was Leon's hidden eye. His silent knife. The man who watched everything and whispered back what he saw—rebellions before they sparked, betrayals before they bled, rot before it festered.
Only two people ever knew what Ronan really was: Aria and Leon. Not even Rias. Not because he didn't trust her… but because the old Leon had already bled too much into the dark, and he wouldn't drag her into it.
Leon gave a slow breath and motioned with two fingers. "Up."
Ronan rose smooth and silent, like a blade drawn in darkness.
Leon didn't waste time. His voice stayed sharp. "Talk. What's going on in the city?"
Ronan nodded once. "Everything flows as expected. Trade's stable. Patrols running on time. No flags, nothing odd—at least, not on the surface." He paused.
Leon caught it. That beat of hesitation. "But?"
Ronan's eyes tightened. "A group arrived yesterday. Foreigners. Five of them. No names, no gate records. Didn't register with the guards, didn't speak to anyone. They don't dress like nobles, and they don't act like merchants. They're quiet. Focused. Like they're hunting something."
Leon leaned forward slightly. "They watching?"
Ronan nodded. "Patrol paths. Market hubs. They've circled key points in the district, always moving. Not buying. Not talking. Just… watching. Tense. Calculated."
Leon's eyes narrowed. "Spies."
"Possibly," Ronan murmured. "Their movements are too clean for amateurs. I think they're scouts. From the northern kingdom, maybe. Sent ahead for something."
Leon sat back, fingers tapping along the armrest. Cold thoughts ran under his skin.
If they were spies, then someone was already moving pieces. And if they were here for him… it was too soon.
The old Leon wouldn't have hesitated. Would've had them silenced before they blinked. Back then, he had power—real power. A Grandmaster cultivator. Untouchable.
But now?
This new body might be noble, might carry the same name… but inside? Hollow. He'd burned every drop of his cultivation to heal the wreckage he'd been reborn into. Now, he was mortal. Fragile. Easy to kill.
Neither Aria nor Rias had noticed the difference. Aria, loyal as she was, only stood at the Master realm. She couldn't feel what was missing. And Rias… sweet Rias hadn't even stepped into the Adept realm yet.
He couldn't lean on them. Not like before.
Leon's voice dropped, cold and firm. "Watch them. If they move—anything—bring it to me first. No delays."
Ronan gave a low bow. "As you will."
Without another word, the man turned and slipped out of the study, the door closing behind him with a heavy thud.
Silence fell again.
Leon exhaled, slow and tired, sinking into the chair like the weight of it all was finally catching up. His eyes flicked to the ceiling, to the firelight, to nothing.
"So even in this life, peace plays hard to get…"
He let the words sit there. Just for a second. Then pushed the thought aside and turned toward Aria.
She was already looking at him.
Her eyes were calm. Still. But her cheeks… that little glow still hadn't faded. And that memory between them—the taste, the warmth, the sound of her voice choking on pleasure—it clung to the air like smoke.
Leon smirked. "Why are you just standing there? Come here."
Aria's blush deepened, but she didn't move.
"My lord," she said, voice barely steady, trying to sound composed but wobbling around the edges. "You still have reports to review. The development budget, zoning permits—everything needs a signature before tomorrow's council."
Leon groaned, tilting his head back with the most dramatic sigh he could muster. "Seriously? That can't wait?"
She shook her head. "It can't."
"Gods, who knew being a Duke meant getting buried under parchment."
Still groaning, he sat up straighter and dragged the nearest scroll toward him like it personally offended him. Aria stepped beside him—closer than before—her fingers brushing his sometimes as she pointed out line items, budgets, district updates.
Her skin was warm. Too warm. He didn't look up.
She handed him a quill, and he caught the faintest twitch of her lips. A smile. Barely there. But he caught it.
And so, with ink-smudged hands and half a hard-on still simmering beneath his belt, Duke Leon sank back into the dull rhythm of noble life. Parchments piled high, wax seals waiting, and a city that never stopped watching.