"Who sent this?"
Michael's eyes narrowed at the storage ring in his hand.
"It was Lady Helena Winters," Butler Morgan replied respectfully.
"Helena? She sent me a gift?"
Michael blinked in disbelief.
"…"
"Is this thing even safe?" He turned the storage ring in his palm like it was a snake ready to bite him. His expression suggested he would rather toss it into the sea.
Helena Winters—one of the key heroines in the original novel. To outsiders, she was seen as Michael's older sister, though the two shared no blood ties. She was the orphaned daughter of his father Alexander Michaelson's sworn brother.
For years, Helena had been groomed as heir to the clan. That was, until Michael was born.
From then on, their relationship soured.
Especially after Michael began chasing Clara Frost, their interactions devolved into open hostility. Whenever they crossed paths, sparks flew—sharp words, duels, and constant disdain. Helena's eyes always burned with contempt, silently declaring: If a lovesick fool like you becomes the next head of the clan, the Michaelson name is doomed.
So for her to send him a gift? Impossible.
Michael frowned.
"Something doesn't add up…"
Had this ever been in the novel? He searched his memory. No.
Was Helena scheming again? Was this a ploy to regain the inheritance she had lost?
But short of killing him outright, nothing she did mattered. His father only had one son.
What was she really after?
Michael muttered under his breath. "This feels like a wolf delivering meat to a sheep…"
He infused his divine sense into the storage ring. A flash of golden light filled his mind.
Inside was a single weapon—a dazzling golden halberd.
Michael's eyes widened.
"A Saint Weapon… and a growth-type?!"
He pulled it out, and the weapon hummed in his grip, light flowing across its shaft. When he swung it experimentally, it felt weightless, its aura flowing seamlessly into his own.
Being a growth-type Saint Weapon, it adjusted to his cultivation automatically, always letting him fight at his peak without any burden.
"This is…" Michael's jaw tightened. "What is Helena Winters trying to do?"
At that moment, Butler Morgan cleared his throat.
"Oh yes, Lady Helena also said she'll be returning to the clan soon. She hopes you'll attend her welcoming banquet."
Michael stared at him like he'd grown a second head.
"What? Me? Attend her banquet?" He tapped the side of his head. "Did staying too long in the Barren Prison Battlefield fry her brain? Or maybe she wants me to show up so she can smash my face in?"
Butler Morgan's lips twitched.
In truth, Young Master Michael wasn't a bad person. He was respectful to elders, loyal to brothers, generous to servants. But when it came to Helena Winters, he transformed into someone completely different.
suspicious, defensive, always expecting the worst.
Morgan wondered quietly: Did Lady Helena discipline him too harshly as a child? Is that why he resents her so much?
Regardless, the golden halberd was clearly chosen with care. It was no common trinket. Yet Michael saw only trouble.
"This isn't in the script…" He muttered. "There's no way I misremembered."
He hadn't even had time to question the system when..
Boom!
A thunderous crash shook the courtyard. Another flying ship, equally grand, landed nearby. From it emerged a familiar figure striding forward with confidence.
"Well, if it isn't Young Master Michael! What are you doing here at the Holy Land? Don't tell me… it's all for Clara?"
The tall youth landed gracefully and clapped Michael on the shoulder with a grin.
Michael grimaced. "Get lost." He gave a dismissive thumbs-down.
The newcomer was Lucas Harrington, first heir of the Harrington Immortal Clan—and Michael's sworn brother. Their bond went back to childhood, the kind of closeness forged from growing up side by side.
If Michael wanted to set fires, Lucas would bring the oil. If Michael wanted to chase women, Lucas would hold the ladder.
In short, no matter how foolish the request, Lucas stood by him.
Unfortunately, Michael knew how the story went. In the novel, after Michael's death in the Forbidden Land of Darkness, Lucas's life spiraled. Desperate to uncover the truth, Lucas defied his clan, burned through resources, and even crossed moral lines.
His loyalty only earned him ruin.
The protagonist Ethan Carter's plot armor ensured Lucas failed at every turn. He was stripped of heirship, cast out, crippled, and finally killed in the wilderness—betrayed by his own younger sister, who later joined Ethan's harem.
Michael sighed heavily, patting his brother's shoulder.
"What's with that face?" Lucas asked, tilting his head. "Usually if I mention Clara, you'd be grinning like an idiot. What's wrong today? Did you wake up on the wrong side of the bed?"
Michael's expression darkened. "From now on, only I am allowed to say her name. Also… treat your sister well."
Lucas blinked. "…What?"
Michael forced himself to keep playing his role, remembering his identity as the hopeless simp.
Lucas raised a brow. "We've been brothers for years. Now I can't even say her name? And what's this about my sister? Don't tell me you..."
His face shifted into suspicion.
Michael looked at him, pity in his eyes. Lucas wasn't a bad man. His talent was outstanding, his character upright, his loyalty unmatched. But in the end, because of Michael's role as villain, his brother had been dragged down.
"If you keep your distance from me, nothing will happen to you," Michael said quietly, half in jest but wholly sincere.
It wasn't the first time he'd tried to warn him.
Lucas frowned. "Something's wrong. Tell me, and I'll help."
Michael shook his head and lifted his hand. "Enough. I'm not talking to you anymore… Clara's here."
As he spoke, his entire demeanor shifted. His eyes lit up, posture straightened, and his expression softened.
Lucas: "…"
The Frost Family's flying ship descended with a low hum. Compared to the massive vessels of the Michaelson and Harrington clans, it was modest. The Frosts weren't one of the Ten Great Immortal Clans. They were only a rising family, one propped up largely by Michael's backing.
From the ship stepped a slender figure.
Clara Frost had arrived.
Her presence stilled the air. Conversations faltered. Dozens of eyes followed her as she descended gracefully.
Even Michael couldn't help but nod inwardly. She was exactly as the novel had described.
Clara Frost—peerless beauty, her gaze cold as ice, her figure flawless, her aura ethereal. Though young, she already carried the poise of an immortal.
That aloof, unapproachable nature had earned her the title of "Ice Goddess."
But she was no mere decoration. Within her body dwelled a rare Ancient Divine Physique—the Nether Phoenix Ice Absolute Physique. Her cultivation would rise naturally even without effort, destined to soar past mortals into the realm of immortals.
Watching her approach, Michael straightened.
It was time to perform.
Time to cultivate the art of being the perfect villain.
Time to play the simp.