"Huh... what kind of system is this?" Ethan was stunned upon knowing the function of the system, this pervert system wants him to seduce mature women, dual cultivate with them getting rewards from the system in return.
"What about my first reward?" Ethan asked quietly.
There was a brief pause before the response appeared.
[First Conquest Bonus Available.]
[Warning: Low-value targets yield limited rewards.]
[Suggested Targets: Palace maid, noble servant, fallen aristocrat.]
Ethan's gaze drifted toward the door once more, his thoughts returning to the timid maid who had delivered the summons earlier.
Mia Turner.
Leon remembered her clearly. She worked the neglected outer wing of the palace, tending to forgotten corridors and unused chambers. She was always careful around him, her movements precise, her voice soft. When she delivered his meals, she often lingered a moment longer than necessary, her cheeks faintly flushed as she avoided his gaze.
It was not affection.
It was loneliness.
Being invisible had a way of drawing the unseen toward one another.
Ethan felt no guilt acknowledging the thought.
The system did not require love, and this world had never offered him mercy.
A burst of laughter echoed from the corridor outside, followed by the heavy sound of boots striking stone.
"He didn't come?" a mocking voice sneered. "Is our little trash prince too sick to crawl now?"
The door was kicked open without warning.
Three young men entered, their robes fine and immaculate, embroidered with silver thread that marked their noble status. At their center stood a tall youth with sharp features and an arrogant smile that Ethan recognized immediately.
Prince Marcus Ashford.
The Third Prince.
Two attendants flanked him, their expressions openly disdainful.
Ethan straightened, meeting Marcus's gaze without flinching.
Something shifted.
Marcus's smile faltered for just a moment, his brow furrowing as he took in the calm, unreadable expression before him. There was no fear in Leon's eyes this time, no trembling submission, no instinctive lowering of his head.
Only stillness.
Cold and deliberate.
Marcus scoffed, masking his unease. "What's that look? Has illness finally rotted your brain?"
Ethan said nothing.
He merely smiled.
Not warmly. Not openly.
Just enough.
Deep within his chest, something long dormant stirred, awakening with quiet certainty.
If this world respected only strength, then he would take it.
One conquest at a time.
And when they finally knelt, they would no longer remember Leon Ashford as the useless Ninth Prince.
....
Prince Marcus Ashford did not like being ignored.
He liked it even less when the person daring to do so was someone he had trampled underfoot for most of his life.
The faint smile on Leon's face lingered for a breath too long, subtle but unmistakable, and it was enough to sour Marcus's mood completely. His eyes narrowed as he took a step forward, boots striking the stone floor with deliberate force, as if reminding everyone present of who held authority in this neglected wing of the palace.
"You look lively for someone who claimed to be unwell," Marcus said, his tone light, though irritation simmered just beneath it. "Did you suddenly find the strength to stand the moment you heard my voice?"
Leon said nothing at first. He straightened fully, letting go of the table he had been using for support, and met Marcus's gaze without lowering his own. His posture was still that of a weak body—slender, untrained—but the way he stood carried an unfamiliar steadiness.
"I was resting," Leon replied at last, his voice even. "You interrupted."
The attendants froze.
For a heartbeat, the room seemed to hold its breath.
Marcus blinked, as though unsure he had heard correctly. Then he laughed, sharp and incredulous, the sound echoing unpleasantly against the walls.
"Interrupted?" he repeated. "You really have lost your mind."
He raised a hand, and one of the attendants stepped forward, face twisted in a grin. "It seems the Ninth Prince needs to be reminded of his place."
Leon watched them calmly, his thoughts far removed from the immediate threat.
The old Leon would have braced himself, jaw clenched, eyes lowered, enduring the pain and swallowing his pride because resistance only brought worse consequences later.
Ethan did not share that instinct.
Not because he suddenly possessed strength—he didn't—but because he understood something Leon never had.
This was a game.
And Marcus was careless.
Before the attendant could reach him, Leon took a step back and spoke again, his tone unhurried.
"If you're here to beat me," he said, "at least do it properly. This wing is isolated, but not soundproof. The wrong scream might travel."
Marcus's laughter cut off.
His eyes flicked briefly toward the door, then back to Leon. "Are you threatening me?"
Leon tilted his head slightly. "I'm reminding you."
The attendant hesitated, uncertain. He glanced at Marcus, who scowled in response.
"Enough," Marcus snapped. "I didn't come here to get my hands dirty."
He stepped closer, invading Leon's space, his voice dropping to a cold whisper. "You refused my summons. Do you know what that means?"
Leon met his gaze steadily. "It means I was ill."
Marcus's lip curled. "It means you're testing my patience."
For a moment, Leon wondered if Marcus would strike him anyway. The Third Prince's temper was notorious, and he had little self-control when challenged.
But Marcus didn't move.
Instead, he straightened and smoothed the front of his robe, regaining his composure with visible effort.
"Enjoy your rest while you can," he said coolly. "The imperial evaluation is approaching. When everyone sees you fail—again—I won't even need to lift a finger."
He turned sharply and strode toward the door. The attendants followed, though not before casting Leon a final look filled with disdain.
The door slammed shut.
Silence settled over the room once more.
Leon exhaled slowly, only now realizing how tense his body had been. His legs trembled faintly, and he allowed himself to sit back down on the edge of the bed before his weakness betrayed him completely.
Too early, he thought. I pushed too early.
But it had been necessary.
Fear was a habit, and breaking it—both his own and others' perception of him—had to start somewhere.
A soft knock sounded at the door a few moments later.
Leon looked up, wary. "Enter."
The door opened cautiously, and Mia Turner slipped inside, closing it quickly behind her. Her eyes were wide, and her hands twisted together at her waist.
"Your Highness," she whispered urgently, "you shouldn't have spoken to the Third Prince like that. If he reports this—"
"He won't," Leon said gently.
She blinked. "How can you be sure?"
Leon regarded her quietly. Up close, he noticed things Leon had never paid attention to before: the faint shadows beneath her eyes from long hours of work, the way her servant's dress, though plain, fit her slender frame neatly, the nervous energy that made her shift her weight from foot to foot.