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 did nothing but admire the reflection staring back at me. It was a face sculpted by the gods of fiction. Jet-black hair that waved gently just above my shoulders, shimmering like spun silk in the light of the enchanted chandelier. Piercing amethyst eyes—intense, intelligent, and carrying a constant, alluring undertone of danger. The skin was pale yet flawless, stretched over a sharp, aristocratic jawline. The default expression was a mask of cold, regal indifference that screamed 'royalty' but whispered 'don't mess with me.' I looked to be about seventeen, maybe eighteen. It was the kind of face that made women blush and men clench their fists in jealousy.
"…Damn," I breathed, turning my head slightly to catch the light. "If I were the princess, I'd marry me too. Slap or no slap."
Just as I was about to strike another pose for absolutely no reason, the heavy oak door to my chambers creaked open. A soft, hesitant voice followed.
"Master Ashen, the Marquess requests your presence in the lobby. Everyone is waiting."
I turned. A young maid stood there, her head bowed in the utmost formality, 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.
I raised an eyebrow, adopting the arrogant drawl that seemed to come so naturally to this body. "And why, dear Lira, would the entire family summon me like I'm a war criminal being brought to trial?"
She looked hesitant, her eyes darting to the floor before meeting mine again. "Master… I believe it is due to the incident from yesterday… your birthday. When you… when you slapped the princess."
Ah. Right. That.
Just then, a sound chimed in my mind, and a translucent blue screen flickered into existence in my field of vision, visible only to me.
[SYSTEM NOTIFICATION: NEW QUEST GENERATED]
[MAIN QUEST: Survive the Family Confrontation] [OBJECTIVE: Avoid severe punishment, maintain a semblance of family dignity, and prevent the further deterioration of the Crimson family name.] [REWARD: Shadow Element - Initial Synchronization with Mana Core (10%)] [NOTE: The fate of your future interactions within the Crimson Estate—and possibly your life—depends on this outcome. No pressure.]
My eyes widened. 'I'm so screwed.' The reward was exactly what I needed—a way to unlock the power this body was born with. But the stakes were terrifyingly high.
I waved a dismissive hand at Lira. "Give me five minutes. Just five. Stay outside."
As soon as she closed the door, my mind kicked into overdrive. Plans. Scenarios. Apologies. Denials. Fake tears. A sudden, dramatic fainting spell. I ran through every possible outcome, mapping my responses like a grandmaster playing a game of cosmic chess. I even mentally rehearsed a noble-style bow, adding a bit of flair for dramatic effect.
I was ready for everything.
Or at least, I thought I was.
"Let's go," I said, my voice steady as I stepped out of the room. 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 me, their expressions a mixture of judgment and disappointment. The walk to the lobby felt like a march to the guillotine. With every step on the plush crimson carpet, the pressure in the air increased, becoming a physical weight on my shoulders. Lira remained silent, her footsteps a soft, nervous patter beside my own. I couldn't blame her. It wasn't every day your young master went from the family's shining prince to its public enemy number one overnight.
We reached the grand double doors of the Crimson Estate's central lobby. They were carved from dark, polished wood and inlaid with silver, depicting a great battle from the family's history. Lira opened them with a polite, almost fearful bow, and I stepped in.
And there they were. An assembly of judgment.
My father—Marquess Regus Crimson—stood tall and imposing by the grand fireplace, his arms crossed over his chest, his cold eyes filled with a fury so profound it seemed to suck the warmth from the room.
My mother—Lady Serena—was seated on a velvet chaise lounge beside him, her beautiful face a stoic mask. Her eyes were red-rimmed but dry, and even her usually gentle, loving aura felt icy and distant.
My sister—Lucielle Crimson—stood to the left, her arms also crossed, her posture mirroring our father's. Her gaze was cold, sharp, and piercing, like she wanted to stab me with her sword and then lecture me for bleeding on the expensive carpet.
Next to them, a guest of honor in this little inquisition, sat Queen Althea of Nowa, the Second Princess's mother. She was perched on a gilded chair that had been brought in for the occasion, her arms folded, one perfectly sculpted eyebrow raised in disdain.
And then the two butlers—the elderly, loyal Garrick and the younger, more severe Thomas—stood quietly in the background, their expressions so grim they looked like they were preparing to mop blood off the floor.
Every single pair of eyes locked onto me the moment I entered.
The room was so silent, I could hear my own heartbeat thundering in my ears, a frantic drum against the suffocating stillness.
I had come prepared with a foolproof plan. Grovel, apologize profusely, beg for mercy if needed, and promise to be a better son, a better man.
But looking at their expressions—the cold fury, the shattered pride, the royal disdain—I knew immediately.
There would be no room for apologies today. This wasn't a scolding. It was a sentencing.
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