However... Marcus rolled up his sleeve and examined the damage with critical assessment. His forearm remained visibly red, swollen, raised in angry welts, with patches of skin actually broken and weeping. The residual outline of the scorpion tattoo was still clearly visible beneath the inflamed tissue—a ghost image that wouldn't fade for weeks.
Showing her this mess? I'd be lucky if I didn't terrify her, never mind earning positive points.
"Fortune," he called internally, hoping for some miraculous solution.
[System: "Yes, Host? I'm here."]
"Is there some kind of special healing potion or accelerated recovery medication that could make this skin heal faster and return to normal appearance? This body covered in scars and wounds will definitely frighten her. That's counterproductive to my mission."
[Fortune: "Host, I must remind you that the physical vessel you're currently inhabiting remains the Original Owner's biological form. Only when your accumulated 'Positive Value' reaches certain threshold levels will the fusion between your soul and this flesh increase substantially. At that point, the body will gradually shift closer to your own inherent characteristics, and natural recovery capabilities will improve accordingly."]
"What about the system shop interface? Are there any repair serums or healing items available for purchase?" Marcus mentally swiped through the virtual inventory screen floating in his consciousness, and sure enough, spotted a grayed-out icon in one corner labeled "Dermal Restoration Elixir." Below it flashed the disappointing message: "Insufficient Points."
[Fortune: "Such items do exist in the catalog, yes. However, your current Positive Value stands at -9 points. You cannot redeem anything until you achieve positive territory."]
"Fine. Whatever." Marcus released a resigned sigh. He'd simply have to work with what he had. At minimum, he could let Elena see the evidence of his sacrifice when he returned home—demonstrate his willingness to change for her sake. Every single point counted at this stage. He'd take whatever he could get.
After an exhausting full day of activity, Marcus arrived back at the villa just as dusk settled over the city, streetlights beginning their nightly illumination.
The sprawling living room stretched before him in all its ostentatious glory. A three-meter crystal chandelier hung from the vaulted ceiling, casting brilliant but emotionally cold radiance across the elongated dining table below.
Elena Nightshade sat alone in the primary position, quietly consuming her evening meal. Her solitary figure appeared heartbreakingly lonely against the vast, empty space surrounding her.
The household manager Sophia stood nearby in patient attendance, releasing a soft sigh that carried notes of genuine concern: "...I had hoped that now Miss is married, she'd finally have company during meals. But here she is, still dining all alone..."
The words were pitched at a volume calculated to be overheard—just loud enough that Marcus, approaching the entrance, caught every syllable with perfect clarity.
He immediately adjusted his expression and body language, raising his voice with deliberately manufactured warmth and enthusiasm: "Honey! I'm home!"
He strode forward on those long legs, simultaneously shrugging out of that aggressively garish red suit jacket as he walked. He handed the offensive garment to Sophia with casual familiarity as she approached to greet him.
Sophia's smile carried traces of awkward discomfort. "Young Master has returned—perfect timing. The food is still warm and ready."
Sure enough, place settings had been arranged for him at the table. Marcus rolled up his shirt sleeves—making absolutely certain to expose his damaged forearms in the process—and settled into the seat positioned directly beside Elena. He addressed Sophia with practiced ease: "Could you please serve me a bowl of rice, Sophia? I'm absolutely starving."
Elena continued taking small, delicate bites of her meal, not even bothering to lift her eyelids. She behaved as though she hadn't heard him speak at all.
"Ahem." Marcus cleared his throat with theatrical obviousness. Observing her complete lack of reaction, he deliberately rolled his sleeve up even further, extending his forearm—still visibly red, swollen, and marked with the ghost outline of the scorpion design—onto the table surface in her direct line of sight. He even rotated his wrist in exaggerated fashion, adding a verbal complaint for good measure: "Man, what an exhausting day. I'm completely wiped out."
Elena kept her gaze fixed straight ahead, utterly ignoring his entire performance.
Marcus pressed his lips together, internally debating his next move. Then he decided to escalate the strategy. He reached out with his left hand to grasp a serving spoon, simultaneously leaning his body toward Elena's side of the table, making an obvious motion to scoop soup directly from the bowl positioned in front of her.
That finally generated a reaction.
Elena's elegant brows drew together in a frown. She glanced toward him with clear displeasure, lips parting as though to deliver some cutting remark—probably something along the lines of "Don't you have your own...?"
But the words died unspoken. Her gaze had locked onto his outstretched left arm with sudden, absolute focus.
That final syllable—whatever it might have been—evaporated into the air like smoke.
There, on his warm-toned forearm where that menacing black scorpion tattoo had dominated the skin for years, the ink had vanished completely. In its place: raised red welts and inflamed tissue that clearly outlined where the scorpion design had once been. The irritated marks extended upward from the back of his hand, traveling along his inner forearm—visually jarring, unmistakably fresh, radiating an almost fragile quality that suggested recent trauma.
Elena blinked slowly. Her long lashes fluttered with delicate butterfly-wing movements as a flash of genuine, unguarded incredulity crossed her normally controlled expression.
He actually... went and had the tattoo removed? Actually did it?
She remembered that detail with crystal clarity. During their carefully orchestrated "first encounter," when Marcus had helped her back into her wheelchair, his left arm had inadvertently brushed against her cheek. She'd caught immediate sight of that dark, aggressive design, and a powerful wave of visceral disgust had surged through her.
So ugly. It had screamed nouveau riche vulgarity and carried implicit suggestions of violence barely restrained beneath the surface.
As their staged "courtship" had progressed through its calculated phases, she'd grown increasingly irritated by the various tacky modifications adorning his skin.
In Elena's assessment, a person's true corruption wasn't measured by the size or darkness of their tattoos. It was measured by the darkness residing in their heart, their moral core.
Skin, ideally, should be clean and unadorned. Fresh. Pure.
Memories unreeled through Elena's mind like aging film footage, grainy and slightly faded but still perfectly clear:
It had been an afternoon shortly before their formal engagement. Marcus had been pushing her wheelchair along a tree-lined path beneath fragrant camphor branches. Gentle breeze rippled across the nearby lake's surface, creating dancing patterns of reflected light that illuminated his profile—which had appeared reasonably pleasant back then, before she'd learned to recognize the calculation behind it.
Elena had hesitated before speaking, voice carrying manufactured uncertainty: "Can I... ask you something? Tell you something I've been thinking about?"
"Of course. Anything." The Original Owner's tone had been relaxed, casually confident.
She'd paused deliberately, allowing silence to build tension. When she finally continued, her voice had dropped even lower: "I'm worried that... you might refuse. You might not agree."
Marcus had smoothly positioned the wheelchair beside a mahogany bench overlooking the water, then turned to face her directly. His hands had gripped the armrests on either side, and he'd leaned close—expression arranged into what he clearly believed was convincing adoration: "Elena, whatever you want, I'll give it to you. Just ask. I promise."
The performance had been decent, she'd grant him that. Unfortunately, those eyes—attempting to project pure devotion—couldn't quite conceal the underlying calculation. The flattery and opportunistic scheming had been obvious to anyone actually paying attention.
Elena had met his gaze for precisely one second before turning her head away in affected discomfort. Her voice had emerged soft, sweet, deliberately vulnerable: "Before we get married... would you consider removing the tattoo on your arm? When I see it, I feel... a little frightened." The truth: it made her want to vomit.
She'd lowered her lashes, adopting an expression of innocent, pitiable helplessness. Her doe-like eyes had darted left and right with calculated timidity.
After an extended silence, the Original Owner had released the wheelchair armrests and leaned back slightly. Discomfort had flickered across his features—genuine this time. "Elena, I want to make you happy. I really do. But this tattoo... I'm afraid that's not something I can change. This one thing, I have to keep."
"Oh. I understand." Elena had sneered internally. So even this transparent fraud had his supposed "principles"? Things he valued enough to refuse compromise? How absolutely pathetic.
Aloud, she'd immediately softened her demeanor, voice going sugar-sweet: "It's fine, really. I was just mentioning it casually. Don't worry about it."
But she'd filed that refusal away carefully—another data point in her comprehensive assessment of his character weaknesses.
Now, pulled back to present reality, Elena stared at that transformed arm—swollen, damaged, but utterly devoid of the aggressive black ink that had once dominated it. For the first time, genuine confusion penetrated her careful emotional armor.
How could something he'd supposedly "cherished" so deeply—valued enough to refuse her request even while actively courting her—now be so casually discarded?
Her gaze drifted almost unconsciously toward Marcus's thin white dress shirt. Through the semi-transparent fabric, she could detect the shadow of extensive reddened areas across his lower back. At this proximity, she could also detect faint medicinal scents: antiseptic solutions and pharmaceutical compounds.
So that's where he disappeared to all day. He was having this done. Enduring this.
"Here, Elena—you should eat more. This steamed egg custard is particularly smooth and tender." A spoonful of golden-yellow custard appeared, gently deposited into the small bowl positioned before her.
Elena lifted her eyes to study Marcus's face directly.
With just that single glance, her sharp observational skills detected something different. Something had shifted in his gaze compared to before.
That exaggerated flattery had diminished. The greedy, calculating sharpness had softened. In its place resided something she couldn't immediately identify or categorize—perhaps exhaustion, or maybe a kind of settled seriousness that suggested genuine intent rather than performance.
What game is he playing now?