Mira Sato had always believed that life was fair—as long as you worked hard, smiled often, and stayed kind.
She believed that… until the knife slid between her ribs.
The pain was sharp, but not as sharp as the betrayal. Her knees hit the cold pavement as her so-called friend stood above her, eyes wide with faux innocence and a red-stained blade in hand.
"Why...?" Mira gasped, blood rising in her throat. "I trusted you."
"You were just in the way," came the answer. Cold. Final.
The city lights blurred as the world around her dimmed, and the last thing she saw was the false smile on a face she once called family.
But death… wasn't the end
She awoke to golden chandeliers, velvet sheets, and servants whispering in fear.
The girl in the mirror was not Mira Sato.
She was Seraphina Vaelcrest, the infamous villainess of The Thorns of Eternity, a cruel noblewoman doomed to die in every route of the game Mira used to play.
And she was already two steps from her downfall.
She knew how the story went: Seraphina bullied the heroine, obsessed over the crown prince, and was eventually cast aside and executed. So Mira did the opposite.
She smiled sweetly at the servants.
She apologized to the heroine before she could even speak.
She donated to the church, praised commoners, and acted like she'd turned over a new leaf.
And most of all—she tried to win the prince's favor.
"I only wish to be someone worthy of standing beside you," she said with a soft smile, lowering her eyes in practiced humility.
The crown prince looked at her—expression unreadable—and said nothing.
But she kept trying.
She sent hand-written letters.
Offered assistance in court.
Laughed when he ignored her. Endured when he scorned her.
Weeks passed.
Nothing changed.
Until one night, she was summoned—not to the ballroom, but to the throne room.
"You are hereby stripped of your title, Lady Vaelcrest," her father, the Duke, announced coldly. "For tarnishing the family's name with your deception."
No trial. No defense. Just exile.
She didn't cry.
She told herself she wouldn't break.
They sent her to the mountains, far from the capital.
A week later, the assassin came.
He didn't speak. Just smiled as he drove the blade into her back.
Her father's seal was on his ring.
She gasped awake.
The silk sheets tangled around her legs, damp with sweat. Her skin was cold. Her breath came in sharp bursts.
Not the mountains.
Not the assassin's blade.
She was back. Again.
The ornate ceiling above her came into focus—familiar and cruel. Moonlight poured through the tall windows, casting long shadows across the marble floor.
No...
Seraphina clutched her chest. Her heartbeat thudded violently against her ribs.
This was her room in the Vaelcrest estate.
Which meant—she was alive.
Again.
She remembered everything. The fake smiles. The forced kindness. The cold rejection. The exile.
The blade.
Her hands trembled as she looked at them. Pale. Untouched. Bloodless.
It hadn't been a dream.
This was the second time she'd died.
The second time she'd failed.
"I tried…" she whispered to no one. "I tried so hard…"
Her voice cracked, and with it, the last pieces of her resolve began to crumble.
No matter what she did, no matter how much she changed, this world didn't want her to live.
Then—something shifted.
A faint pull, deep inside her chest. Like something stirring beneath her skin. It wasn't pain, but it wasn't comfort either. Just… strange.
The air around her felt heavier for a heartbeat.
She reached out, as if to grab it—but it was gone.
"What was that…?" she murmured, glancing at her fingertips.
No glow. No mark. Just her trembling hand.
She pressed her palms into her eyes and tried to calm her breathing. Whatever it was, it wasn't important. Not now.
What mattered was this:
She had died again.
And she didn't know how many more chances she had left.
The second life taught her that kindness wouldn't save her.
So in her third, Seraphina Vaelcrest didn't bother with affection. Not for the prince. Not for the people. Not even for herself.
She didn't smile falsely.
She didn't grovel.
She watched.
She waited.
And in the shadows of her gilded prison, she plotted.
To her father—the Duke of Vaelcrest—she became the perfect daughter. Diligent. Submissive. Obedient.
She memorized every noble family's weakness. She attended etiquette lessons and parroted the lines expected of her. She studied economics under his advisors, passed every test, and accepted his praises with a graceful curtsy.
But behind his back?
She was building her exit.
Secretly selling her jewelry. Bribing servants. Smuggling gold into hidden accounts. Studying the maps of distant provinces where the crown's control ran thin.
And then—one moonless night—she vanished.
For the first time in all her lives, Seraphina tasted freedom.
She changed her name. Wore plain clothes. Traveled from town to town, offering magical services in exchange for coin. It wasn't much, but it was hers.
No rules. No nobles. No roles to play.
She laughed. She danced. She watched the stars and smiled without fear.
Two years passed.
She thought she was finally safe.
Until she went into town for bread and saw the kingdom's crest on a soldier's cloak.
They recognized her.
And then she ran.
She ran until her lungs burned and her legs collapsed beneath her.
But knights never stopped chasing.
They dragged her back in chains.
Her father didn't say a word when he saw her. He simply turned his back.
She was locked away—never to leave the manor grounds again.
House arrest became her new prison.
And though she planned again—planned endlessly—there was no way out this time.
Then came the fire.
Rumors of treason.
False documents. Hidden gold. Secret correspondences.
None of it was real.
But it didn't matter.
The entire Vaelcrest family was arrested.
Her father. Her mother. Even the servants who had once pitied her.
The sentence: execution.
And the one who signed the royal decree?
The Crown Prince.
She never got a trial.
They bound her in iron and paraded her before the capital like a beast.
The guillotine stood tall under a blood-red sky.
As the blade fell, the last thing she saw was the prince's face—calm, unreadable, distant.
And she realized:
In every life, no matter how she changed, she would die.