The memories flooded in not as a gentle stream, but as a chaotic, roaring deluge. It wasn't just information; it was a lifetime of arrogance, folly, and self-destruction downloaded directly into my soul. And the worst part? It didn't end with the tournament humiliations or the arranged marriage.
This stupid bastard—yes, the original Ashen—had the audacity to slap the Second Princess of Nowa at his own birthday party. In front of hundreds of nobles. In front of the entire royal family. On the very day meant to celebrate his coming of age.
Bravo, truly. The man didn't just have a death wish; he had a Ph.D. in self-destruction with a minor in social suicide.
The aftermath, as his memories vividly replayed, was utter chaos. His father, Marquess Regus, had beaten him black and blue right there in the grand hall, the sound of each blow echoing in the stunned silence. His mother, Lady Serena, had watched with a face like shattered porcelain, her heart visibly breaking in two. And his sister, Lucielle—who happened to be the princess's closest friend—had stared at him with a look of pure, unadulterated disgust. In a single, spectacular act of idiocy, Ashen Crimson's reputation had crumbled from disgraced heir to irredeemable monster. The long-prepared engagement with the princess was instantly and publicly annulled, and every noble who witnessed the event left with one story to tell: the Crimson brat had finally, irrevocably lost his mind.
But honestly? As the last of these mortifying memories settled, a strange sense of calm washed over me. I didn't care.
Because now I was Ashen. And I was no fool.
"Why the hell would I slap a princess?" I muttered to my reflection, cracking the knuckles of my new, slender fingers. A slow, predatory smirk spread across my face. "If she's cute and a member of royalty, I'd rather offer her tea. Or my hand in marriage. Or both."
A wave of satisfaction washed over me. Whatever this broken soul had done, I would undo. I would be the ultimate fixer. I would clean up his messes, charm his enemies, win hearts, and maybe—just maybe—avoid getting publicly executed before I had a chance to enjoy this ridiculously luxurious lifestyle.
Then came the fragmented memories of what happened after the slap. It was a whirlwind of chaos. Rebellion within the household staff. Betrayal from his few remaining allies. People literally wanting him dead. There were mobs gathering outside the estate gates, secret assassins slipping through the shadows of the gardens, and hidden conspiracies brewing in the noble courts.
My reaction?
I smiled.
"Haha, bring it on," I whispered to the handsome stranger in the mirror.
And then I truly looked at him. And I froze.
For ten whole minutes, I stared into the perfectly sculpted visage reflected back at me. It was a face molded on the anvil of fiction by gods. Jet-black hair softly waved just above my shoulders, glimmering like spun silk in a magical chandelier's light. Piercing amethyst eyes: compelling, intelligent, and bearing an incessant assets undertow of danger. Skin, pale yet flawlessly stretched over an angularly aristocratic jawline. Its default expression is cold, regal indifference that announces 'royalty' while whispering 'don't mess with me.' I might have been seventeen, perhaps eighteen. That face could cause women to blush and men to squeeze their fists with jealousy.
"Damn," I breathed, angling my face just a bit so the light hit it at an odd angle. "If I were the princess, I'd marry me too, slap or no slap."
Just before I took a pretentious pose for no good reason, the heavy oak door to my quarters slowly creaked open, followed by the soft, hesitant voice.
"Master Ashen, the Marquess has called for you in the lobby, waiting for you, sir."
Turning around, there stood a maid, her head bowed in utmost formality, and her hands clasped nervously in front of her.
Her name? Lira. The name surfaced from the sea of memories. She was one of the few people who hadn't looked at the old Ashen with open disdain, even after his spectacular fall from grace. She was beautiful in a quiet, unassuming way-light brown hair tied into a neat bun, soft green eyes that held a hint of pity, and a petite frame that looked delicate yet composed in her classic black-and-white maid uniform, the snarling wolf crest of the Crimson family stitched proudly onto the shoulder.
My brow raised slightly, and I adopting the haughty drawl that felt so automatic in this body. "And why, dear Lira, would the entire family summon me like I'm a war criminal being brought to trial?"
Her hesitation felt as though it was transmitted in the manner her eyes trailed across the floor and back to me. "Master… I think it is because of yesterday… your birthday. When you… when you slapped the princess."
Ah. Right. That.
Just then, a sound chimed in my mind and introduced a translucent blue screen, twinkling to existence in my field of vision but visible to none other than myself.
[SYSTEM NOTIFICATION: NEW QUEST GENERATED]
[MAIN QUEST: Survive the Family Confrontation] [Objective: Avoid severe punishment, keep up some semblance of family dignity, and put-off the further ruining of the name of the Crimson family.] [Reward: Shadow Element-Initial Synchronization with Mana Core (10%)] [Note: This is going to determine if and how you will relate with everyone in the Crimson Estate, even your life." No pressure.]
My eyes widened: I'm darned. The reward was just what I was dying to have-a means to unlock the power this body was born with. But the stakes were terrifyingly high.
I waved dismissively at Lira. "Give me just five minutes. That's it. Stay outside."
As she closed the door, my mind hit the turbo all at once. Plans. Scenarios. Apologies. Denials. Fake tears. A suddenly fainting spell. I mapped out every conceivable outcome, plot-wise as a grandmaster would play chess against the cosmos. I even practiced a noble-style bow with a little panache for drama's sake.
I was ready for just about everything.
Or so I thought.
"Let's go," I said, my voice steady as I stepped outside. I followed Lira down the long, opulent hallway, the portraits of stern-faced Crimson ancestors watching my every move. Their painted eyes seemed to follow my every action with a mixture of judgment and disappointment in their expressions. The march to the lobby felt like a march to the guillotine. The plush crimson carpet resonated, increasing the pressure around me with every step, becoming palpable weight on my shoulders. Lira now had her silence, suffused with soft, nervous patters beside mine. Now and then, this would happen-it was like changing your young master from the shining princely image into the public enemy number one of his family overnight.
And the two butlers-the elderly and loyal Garrick and the younger-severer Thomas-bore witness to the proceedings, standing grimly at the back, their faces so prepared that one might think they were going to mop blood off the floor.
The moment I entered the room, all the eyes switched toward me.
It was so quiet in the room that I'd hear my heartbeat thumping a restive drum against the suffocating stillness.
I was ready. Had a foolproof plan. Grovel and apologize profusely, beg for mercy if necessary, even offer to be a better son or man than I had been before.
But the moment I saw their expressions-cold fury, shattered pride, and royal disdain-I knew right away.
There wouldn't be room for any apologies today. This is not to be a scolding; it is a sentencing.
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