My head throbbed in heavy, rhythmic pulses as I opened my eyes. The room was familiar—the same place I'd last spoken with Masha. She was there, lounging on the bed with a playful, sharp smile.
"To think you'd pull such a dangerous stunt to solve the quest," she said. Her voice dripped with amusement, hiding a sliver of genuine praise. "I must commend your brilliance, Amon. Or should I say... Park?" She chuckled, sitting upright.
"Masha, did you summon me just for the flattery?" My voice felt heavy with exhaustion. I wasn't in the mood for praise, especially for a plan as messy as mine.
"Aw, don't you want to hear my sweet voice?" Her eyes danced with mischief. I looked away. To me, the "victory" felt more like a narrow escape from my own curiosity.
"Look," I said, forcing myself to meet her gaze. "I almost failed. I don't want to celebrate a win that cost me that much."
Masha's smile didn't waver. She slid off the bed and stepped into my space. "Park, you deserve it. I've managed countless streams, but I've never seen a 'Star' like you. Rational, yet completely reckless." She cupped my face, her grin widening.
Her face was inches from mine. I could feel her breath on my skin—a blatant attempt to rattle me. I didn't budge.
"You're a smooth talker, Masha," I sighed. "But is the contact necessary?"
"Are you flustered?" she teased, leaning in until our lips nearly brushed. "Do you want a kiss?"
It was a trap—a performance for her own entertainment. I pulled back, refusing to give her the reaction she wanted. "Can you please stop trolling me?"
Masha's laughter rang out—a melodic, high-pitched sound that filled the room. She pulled back just enough for me to breathe, though her hands lingered on my shoulders like a weight.
"A troll? How cruel! I prefer 'interactive guide,'" she chirped with a wink. She spun in a theatrical swirl, her dress fluttering, before dropping into a seat across from me. "You're far too prickly for fanservice today. The Red King's influence, I presume?"
I leaned back, my skull still pulsing. "You watched it all, didn't you? The System, the King... the sacrifice."
"Every delicious second," she said. Her smile took on a sharper, more sadistic edge. "Your 'double' was quite the hero. But let's talk business. You finished the quest: secured the target, wiped out the mimics, and walked away from a Higher Being."
With a snap of her fingers, the air shimmered. Translucent windows flickered into existence between us.
QUEST CLEAR: [Leones' Favourite]
Primary Objective: Rescue Costoria Leone (COMPLETED)
Secondary Objective: Eliminate Aimus High-Command (COMPLETED)
Hidden Objective: Entertain the Red King (COMPLETED)
REWARDS CALCULATING...
Permanent Passives: [Mark of the Sword], [Mark of Death]
Magium Refinement: A-Rank -> S-Rank
New Title: [Red King's Jester]
I stared at the shimmering windows, stunned.
"I've polished your interface. Looks better, doesn't it?" Masha leaned back, wearing a look of pure smugness. She was practically begging for a compliment. "And yes, I can play with the System however I like."
"Then my intuition was right." I looked at her, my mind racing. "The quest wasn't long-term—it was a sprint. And now there are hidden objectives?"
I couldn't hide the shock in my voice. The rules of the isekai were shifting under my feet.
"I figured it would be more entertaining for your future viewers," she explained. She remained still, her eyes locked on mine, waiting for me to acknowledge her handiwork.
"Masha, you really want to see me suffer, don't you?" A vein throbbed at my temple.
It was bad enough being dragged into a novel I despised. Now, the very person who had isekai'ed me was treating my life like a sandbox to be broken.
"I'll take that as a compliment," she replied. She beamed, looking genuinely delighted by my irritation.
I swallowed my next complaint. Venting was useless; Masha was a pure sadist who fed on my frustration. I should have realised that the moment she dropped me into this trash novel.
I turned my attention back to the shimmering windows. Beneath the quest rewards, a section titled Permanent Passives caught my eye. I'd missed it in my initial irritation. [Mark of the Sword] made sense, but [Mark of Death]?
"A reward for the hidden quest," Masha said, reading my mind. Her voice was light, entertained. "And they're exactly what they sound like—abilities that remain active without a single thought from you."
"What do they actually do?" I asked, looking back at her.
"Why don't you find out for yourself?" She chuckled, a sound that offered no comfort.
I reached out and tapped the translucent text. Two new windows bloomed into light.
[Mark of the Sword]
Type: Permanent Passive
Effect: Grants the user the ability to nullify any physical attack or spells using a blade. Significantly increases blade affinity and proficiency.
Drawback: Cannot deflect attacks that exceed the user's current Magium refinement level.
[Mark of Death]
Type: Permanent Passive
Effect: Grants total immunity to mind-based attacks. Neutralises "Sure-Kill" effects, preventing instant death.
Drawback: "Sure-Kill" abilities still inflict massive damage upon impact.
I read the descriptions, stunned. These passives were broken—the drawbacks felt almost non-existent compared to the utility. It was too good to be true. I glanced at Masha; she was watching me with a look of pure delight. Every instinct I had screamed that she was setting me up for a fall.
"Geez, you're so uptight!" Masha pouted, her voice thick with mock offence. "You get rewards that match your performance, and yet you're still suspicious? You really think I'm just scheming to make you suffer again?"
"Considering your personality, it's a logical conclusion," I answered, my voice steady. "More importantly, didn't you say you were a busy person? Don't you have streams to manage?"
"I do." Masha's expression softened into a genuine smile. "But spending a little extra time with you is... fun."
It was the first time she'd sounded truly sincere. The sudden shift caught me off guard, and for a second, my heart skipped a beat. Before I could catch myself, a heat flared in my face, turning my cheeks a brilliant red.
Masha's soft smile instantly sharpened into a teasing grin.
"Aw, is someone blushing?~" She leaned forward, her voice laced with honey.
"S-shut up," I muttered, looking away. My face felt like it was on fire.
Masha chuckled, clearly delighted by my reaction. "You're such a strange character, Park. You didn't flinch when I was practically on top of you, but a few kind words leave you a blushing mess."
"Enough," I muttered. I tried to sound firm, but my voice cracked with a lingering heat.
A sharp, familiar chime echoed through the room—the alarm on Masha's wristwatch. She glanced at the screen and sighed, the disappointment on her face looking almost real. "It looks like I have to go."
She rose and sauntered toward me, leaning in one last time. "You did well, Amon. I truly appreciate the show you put on." She punctuated the sentence with a playful wink.
"Masha, wait. I have a question." My embarrassment faded, replaced by a nagging thought. "The System... it has a will of its own, doesn't it?"
"It does," she said, her eyes gleaming. "But don't worry, Park. I've tweaked the settings. You won't receive any more quests until you officially start streaming globally. I've made sure the System won't bloat your stats before the cameras are rolling. Don't worry about being too op before the story even starts~"
A wave of relief washed over me. Being too strong too early was a death sentence for a streamer. If there's no struggle, there's no audience—and if I flop as a Streaming Star, I'm as good as cooked.
. . .
The Head Priestess looked down at the unconscious boy, a frown marring her porcelain features. She stood tall in her white habit, the crescent moon embroidered on her chest catching the light. Her shimmering silver hair was tucked neatly away, leaving only her brilliant golden eyes to radiate an aura of heavy, grounded purity.
"This boy has endured far too much," she whispered, her fingers grazing Amon's ghostly white hair. "His sanity is a frayed thread."
She looked up at Arnold and Emilia. Both stood in silence, their expressions grim and hollow. "Tell me," the Head Priestess said, her voice sharpened by a sliver of anger. "What do you believe happened to your son?"
Emilia turned her gaze to the floor, her shoulders heavy with guilt. "We... we don't know. I can only assume the Aimus tortured him while he was in their hands."
"Your son has seen the Red King," the Priestess countered. A flicker of contempt crossed her golden eyes. "It is a miracle he possesses even a sliver of his mind. Surely you know what happens to those who look upon that entity?"
The words hit like a physical blow. To encounter the Red King was to receive a death sentence, yet somehow, their son had returned. Arnold's legs gave out; he slumped to the floor, staring into the nothingness of the stone tiles in wide-eyed horror.
The Head Priestess looked away from them. While she felt a genuine ache of pity for the boy, she had none for his parents. The House of Riversong—the second most powerful bloodline in the Empire—had failed. They had allowed their enemies to snatch an heir from under their noses and deliver him into the hands of a nightmare.
The Head Priestess began her work, her hands glowing with the gold-white light of high-tier Divine Magic. One spell after another washed over Amon, weaving through his shattered psyche to knit the fragments back together.
The trauma of the Red King began to recede, but the magic eventually hit a wall. No matter how much power she poured into him, a jagged void remained. Three-quarters of his mind was restored, but the final portion stayed dark, resisting every incantation.
The Priestess withdrew her hands, breathless. She realised then that no spell, no matter how holy, could truly fix him. The boy hadn't just been tortured; he had been force-fed infinite knowledge. The weight of something so impossible had burned a permanent scar into his soul.
"Priestess..." Emilia's voice wavered. She fought for composure, but the raw terror of a mother seeing her child broken bled through every word. "How is he?"
"I have mended what I could," the Priestess replied, her chest heaving from the strain. She turned to them, her golden eyes dim with exhaustion. "Three-quarters of his mind is restored. But the rest... it is beyond my reach. The infinite knowledge has left a permanent scar. A quarter of his soul is simply gone."
"I see..." Emilia whispered. A fragile sense of relief flickered in her eyes, though it was shadowed by the grim reality of what remained.
"He needs rest," the Priestess said, her voice sharp despite her fatigue. "And he needs protection."
"I understand," Emilia murmured. The reminder was a fresh sting to her conscience, and she looked away, the weight of her failure heavy in her tone.
The heavy doors to the office swung open. A man in an ornate golden wheelchair rolled into the room, pushed by a silent woman.
He was draped in white robes, his fair skin and medium-length blonde hair catching the light of the digital LEDs of the room. His robes were embroidered with a celestial map of moons and stars, but it was the ring on his finger that commanded the room. It was a band of pure gold, bearing the Royal Crest—a crown perched defiantly over a crescent moon.
The woman behind him was a striking contrast of cool tones—long, silken blue hair and eyes the colour of a deep ocean. She wore a white Qipao embroidered with a celestial map of moons and stars. The theme continued down her long gloves and thigh-high boots, both traced with intricate golden ornaments that shimmered as she moved.
Together, they possessed a chilling, flawless beauty. They didn't just walk into the room; they brought with them an air of unmatched royalty and a holiness so thick it felt tangible.
As the pair entered, Emilia, Arnold, and the Head Priestess bowed in unison. To an outsider, seeing a Duke and Duchess of their stature lower their heads might have been jarring, but here, it was a necessity. They were standing in the presence of the Holy Emperor and Empress.
"Please, raise your heads," the Emperor, Raul Reinhardt, said softly. The room obeyed at once.
"I trust your Imperial Majesties are in good health," Emilia said, her tone meticulously respectful.
"Emilia, please. I've asked you countless times to use my name." Raul's golden eyes glimmered with a warmth that felt genuinely humble. "We are friends, are we not?"
"Yes, but—"
"Emilia," the Empress, Liberello Reinhardt, interrupted. Her voice carried a heavy, innate authority wrapped in a layer of friendship. "It is only natural for friends to address one another by name."
The two rulers were total opposites in spirit. If Raul's voice held the gentle melody of a spring bird, Liberello's carried the smouldering intensity of a dragon.
"Fine," Emilia conceded with a sigh, a faint, friendly smile finally breaking through her worry.
"Now, why are you and Arnold so sombre today?" Raul asked. He studied them both, his inquisitive gaze lingering. "Is it your son?"
"Yes." Emilia glanced back at the unconscious Amon, her eyes trailing over his still form before returning to the royals.
"Do not be so heavy-hearted," Raul chuckled, his voice as steadying as a calm sea. "The boy is just like you, Emilia. I can feel it—the frequency of his soul is a perfect match for yours, even if it is a little jagged right now."
"Raul is right," Liberello chimed in. "Your son wasn't a victim of a kidnapping. He was the architect of one. He allowed himself and Costoria Leone to be taken for one purpose: to dismantle the Aimus stronghold from the inside."
Emilia, Arnold, and even the Head Priestess stood frozen. The room fell into a heavy, stunned silence as the Empress laid out the brilliance of Amon's strategy—every move calculated, every risk weighed.
"The most astounding part," Liberello concluded, her gaze sweeping over their shocked faces, "is that he made only one error. It was a fatal mistake for him, yet it didn't hinder his plan in the slightest. He won exactly as he intended."
"See? He's your mirror image, Emilia," Raul chuckled as Liberello finished. "A scheme that brilliant—and that reckless—could only have come from you."
The pieces finally clicked into place for Emilia and Arnold. When Costoria had first told them Amon had cleared the stronghold, they'd dismissed it as a stroke of luck or a sudden burst of power. They were wrong. It wasn't luck; it was a cold, calculated architecture.
"He did all of that..." Emilia's eyes widened as the full scope of the gamble hit her. "He wanted a permanent, vassal-like alliance with the Leones. And he did it to earn my favour."
Emilia leaned back, a hand over her face as a sharp, amused laugh escaped her. "It seems I've birthed a more monstrous version of myself."
"As proud as I am," Arnold finally spoke, his voice heavy with a father's dread. "I'm terrified of his recklessness. What happens when he tries something like this again?"
"He won't have the chance," Emilia said. She turned to him, her smile as sharp and cold as a blade. "I'm going to personally burn every Aimus stronghold near our borders to the ground. Then, I'll find every remaining rat hiding in the Riversong Empire—and I will exterminate them."
. . .
Three days had passed since the visit to the Grand Cathedral. Amon remained unconscious—a state the Head Priestess had predicted would last at least a week.
When Arnold questioned Raul and Liberello on how they had deduced his son's scheme so easily, Raul had simply smiled. He claimed it was a natural conclusion given Emilia's intellect. To an outsider, the answer was vague, but Arnold understood the truth behind the deflection.
Those destined to rule the Holy Empire were born with an inherent skill: [God's Insight].
The skill was near-omniscient, capable of deconstructing any question into a clear explanation. Its only boundary was time itself. It could not peer into the future, nor provide certainties for what had yet to pass. It belonged strictly to the now and the then—stripping the secrets from the past and the present to allow its user to weave the most accurate predictions possible.
Sophia sat by Amon's bedside, her posture rigid and her expression sombre. Since the day of the kidnapping, she had become a ghost in her own home, driven by a relentless, near-feverish cycle of training and study. In just three days, she had pushed her Magium refinement to A-rank—a feat that should have been celebrated—but to her, it felt like nothing. It wasn't enough. It was never enough.
Every evening, her muscles aching and her mind frayed, she retreated to Amon's room. She would sit with him for hours, her voice a low murmur in the quiet air. She told him everything—the details of her drills, the books she had memorised, and today, her breakthrough to A-rank.
She waited for a sarcastic remark or a knowing look, but Amon remained a statue of pale glass.
Despite her parents' assurance that he would wake in a week, the silence felt like an accusation. The guilt of her failure had carved a deep, jagged scar into her heart. To Sophia, every minute he remained unconscious was a minute she had failed to protect the person she loved most.
"Why do you look like a fried fish...?"
The voice fractured the silence of the room. Sophia froze, her breath catching as she turned toward the bed. She didn't dare believe her own ears until she saw him—Amon was awake, watching her with a faint, tired smirk.
"You look exhausted, Sophia. You really should take—"
He didn't get to finish. Sophia launched herself at him, her weight hitting the bed as she wrapped her arms around him in a desperate, bone-deep hug. The dam finally broke, and hot tears began to soak into the collar of his sleeping dress.
"Whoa, easy there," Amon murmured. He let out a soft huff of air as he returned the embrace, his hand finding its way to her hair in a slow, rhythmic caress. "I was only gone for a little while. Seriously, calm down."