A knock echoed through the room.
Sharp. Controlled.
I flinched.
Right.
New life. New body.
"Y-Young Master?" A soft voice came from beyond the door. "May I enter?"
I forced myself to breathe evenly.
"Come in."
The voice that left my mouth was calm. Colder than I expected.
The door opened quietly.
A young maid stepped inside, eyes lowered, a silver tray balanced carefully in her hands. She moved like someone walking on thin ice.
Afraid of making a sound.
Afraid of making a mistake.
Afraid of me.
She placed the tray down gently. "Your morning tea, Young Master."
Her fingers trembled slightly.
I felt something tighten in my chest.
In the novel, Lucian never treated the staff well. He didn't need to. They were beneath him.
But this wasn't a novel anymore.
This girl was real.
"…"
Think.
If I suddenly act too different, it'll draw suspicion.
But if I act exactly like him…
I'll become him.
Before she could step away, I spoke.
"What is your name?"
The words slipped out before I could stop them.
Silence filled the room.
Her shoulders went rigid.
Slowly, carefully, she lifted her head just enough to look at me — confusion flickering across her face.
"…L-Lina, Young Master."
Her voice shook.
Right.
In the original story, she was never given a name.
Just "the maid."
A background character.
Disposable.
I swallowed.
"Lina," I repeated quietly.
She looked even more confused.
Lucian didn't remember servants' names.
He barely acknowledged their existence.
I leaned back slightly, masking the moment.
"You're new," I said, letting a faint edge enter my tone.
"Yes, Young Master."
Good. That explains it.
"Don't make mistakes," I added coolly.
Her posture straightened instantly. "I won't, Young Master."
There it was again.
That fear.
That automatic obedience.
She bowed and moved toward the door.
Before leaving, she paused.
"The Duke requests your presence at breakfast."
My chest tightened.
Ragnar Vale.
The Duke.
Lucian's father.
A person who has reached the SS+ rank.
A walking disaster.
The man whose disappointment shaped half of Lucian's arrogance.
The day begins.
The story begins.
And I've already changed something small.
I stared at the untouched tea.
Lina.
In the novel, she was dismissed after a minor incident.
But now I knew her name.
Somehow… that made this world harder to treat like fiction.
I stood slowly.
"If I'm going to survive…"
I adjusted my sleeves.
"…then I have to choose who I become."
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The dining hall doors opened without a sound.
And there he was.
Duke Ragnar Vale.
He didn't look like a politician.
He looked like war carved into human form.
His hair, once fully black according to the novel, was now streaked with silver at the temples. Not from age — but from years beneath open skies and battlefield stress. His features were sharp, defined, as if sculpted with a blade instead of chisel.
A thin scar cut across his jawline, disappearing beneath his collar.
Another faint one marked his left brow.
He didn't bother hiding them.
They weren't flaws.
They were proof.
His shoulders were broad beneath a simple dark coat — no excessive embroidery, no unnecessary jewelry. The only ornament he wore was the House Vale crest pinned over his chest.
A silver sword.
Unsheathed.
Even sitting down, he radiated control.
Power.
Precision.
His posture was perfectly straight. Not rigid — disciplined.
Like a sword resting in its scabbard.
Waiting.
The moment I stepped inside, his eyes lifted.
Gray.
Cold.
Not the cold of anger.
The cold of evaluation.
I felt it immediately.
Like standing too close to the edge of something sharp.
"Father."
My voice sounded smaller than I intended.
He did not greet me.
He did not nod.
He simply observed.
"You are aware of what you said at the Valcrest banquet."
My chest tightened.
Fragments of memory surfaced.
Music. Crystal chandeliers. Nobles whispering behind gloved hands.
And her.
Lady Seraphine Ardent.
Silver hair tied neatly at the nape of her neck. Calm posture. A sword at her waist despite the formal setting.
She stood straighter than most men in that hall.
And Lucian—
Lucian laughed.
I felt the memory settle fully into place.
She had spoken about military reform. About strengthening border defenses. Intelligent. Composed.
And Lucian interrupted her.
Smiling.
Mocking.
"House Ardent would gain more from your marriage than from your blade."
The hall had gone silent.
It wasn't shouted.
It didn't need to be.
The insult was precise.
Surgical.
It questioned her skill.
Her role.
Her worth.
Not just as a swordswoman — but as an heir.
Even worse, it implied her house would benefit more from using her politically than trusting her with command.
In a warrior lineage like House Ardent…
That was unforgivable.
"She requested a formal duel immediately," the Duke said calmly.
Of course she did.
I swallowed.
House Ardent had formally requested a duel.
Not a private apology.
A public one.
"You will face Lady Seraphine in three days," the Duke said flatly.
No emotion.
No comfort.
"She is stronger than you."
A statement.
Not an opinion.
"And yet it was you who provoked her."
The weight of that truth pressed heavily against my ribs.
I hadn't said those words.
But this body had.
This name had.
This reputation had.
"You will not disgrace this house further."
There it was again.
Not anger.
Expectation.
Cold. Immovable expectation.
I clenched my fist beneath the table.
In the original story, this duel ended in humiliation.
Lucian attacked recklessly.
She dismantled him.
Cleanly.
Effortlessly.
The nobles whispered.
The Duke watched.
And something inside Lucian began to rot that day.
I looked up slowly.
"I understand."
The Duke studied me.
Searching.
Evaluating.
Finding nothing yet.
"See that you do."