The Leonhart Ducal Estate woke before the sun.
Rias von Leonhart discovered this fact the hard way.
I lay on my bed, eyes half-open, staring at the ornate canopy above me while my body protested every attempt at movement. The pain had dulled since yesterday, but "dulled" was being generous. It felt like someone had replaced my muscles with badly knotted ropes.
Just as I was contemplating the philosophical question of whether breathing counted as strenuous exercise—
Knock. Knock.
"Enter," I croaked.
The door opened with military precision.
Two maids stepped in first, followed closely by the same silver-haired butler from before. He inclined his head politely.
"Good morning, Young Master Rias. His Grace requests your presence at breakfast."
I blinked.
"…He does?"
That was new.
In the novel, Rias usually ate separately—or didn't eat at all when bedridden. Family breakfasts were reserved for the real Leonharts.
"Yes," the butler replied smoothly. "He insists."
That single word carried more menace than comfort.
I sighed internally.
So much for easing into this new life gently.
With the maids' help—and what felt like a minor medical miracle—I was cleaned, dressed, and escorted out of my room. My reflection in the mirror showed a pale boy with crimson eyes and neatly tied blonde hair, dressed in a modest but elegant noble outfit.
I looked… fragile.
Like a strong breeze could sue me for damages.
"Perfect," I muttered. "Exactly the image I was going for."
The dining hall was massive, long enough that my legs began to regret existing halfway through the walk. A long polished table dominated the center, already set with elaborate dishes that smelled far too good for someone who might faint mid-bite.
At the head of the table sat a man whose presence alone bent the atmosphere.
Reinard von Leonhart.
The Duke.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, with steel-gray hair tied neatly behind his head. His face was sharp, weathered, and stern—like a blade that had tasted countless battles. Even seated, he radiated pressure. The kind that made you straighten your spine without realizing it.
Sword Master-Rank.
One of the strongest swordsmen in the kingdom.
And my biological father.
His gaze flicked toward me briefly, then returned to his meal.
"Sit," he said.
No warmth. No hostility.
Just command.
I obeyed immediately, lowering myself into the chair farthest from him—strategically chosen for survival.
To his right sat the Duchess.
Melisa von Leonhart was the embodiment of noble grace. She had long chestnut hair styled elegantly, soft blue eyes, and a calm smile that never quite reached her gaze when it came to me.
She wasn't cruel.
She simply wasn't my mother.
"Rias," she said politely. "I'm glad to see you recovered."
"Thank you, Duchess," I replied.
Formality. Distance. Clean and cold.
Across the table sat the legitimate heirs.
And oh boy.
Let's start with the eldest.
Caspian von Leonhart.
He sat upright, posture immaculate, broad shoulders filling his chair like it was carved specifically for him. His crimson eyes—lighter than mine, sharper—glanced over briefly, then dismissed me entirely. His hair was a deeper shade of gold, neatly combed back, not a single strand out of place.
The perfect successor.
He was the one who inherited the duke's sword talent. In the novel, Caspian was respected, feared, and burdened by expectations heavier than armor.
Next to him sat Lucien.
Second son.
Silver-tongued devil.
Lucien von Leonhart leaned lazily in his chair, elbow propped against the table, chin resting on his palm. His smile was easy, charming, and dangerous in the way a fox smiled at a henhouse.
His eyes flicked to me and lingered.
"Well, well," he drawled. "Looks like our little brother survived again."
I smiled weakly. "Good morning to you too."
He chuckled. "You're in a good mood. Did death reject you?"
"Even death has standards," I replied.
For a split second, Lucien froze.
Then he laughed—genuinely amused.
"Oh? Interesting."
Noted. Very noted.
Further down the table, a smaller figure fidgeted with his spoon.
Kael von Leonhart.
The third son was still young—barely ten—but his mana presence was already unsettling. His dark blonde hair was messy, his eyes bright with curiosity and impatience. He glanced at me, then quickly looked away, pretending very hard to be interested in his food.
He wasn't hostile.
Just unsure.
And finally—
"Elisa," the Duchess said softly. "Mind your manners."
The only daughter of the Leonhart family looked up from her plate.
Elisa von Leonhart was beautiful in a quiet, radiant way. Long golden hair, gentle crimson eyes, and a soft smile that made servants melt on sight. She embodied everything a noble lady should be.
She looked at me and hesitated.
"…Good morning, Rias."
Her voice was polite. Careful.
"Good morning," I replied.
In the original story, Elisa was kind—but distant. She pitied Rias, and that pity was worse than scorn.
Breakfast began in relative silence.
Silverware clinked softly. Servants moved like ghosts.
I ate slowly, mindful of my body. The duke finally spoke after several minutes.
"You collapsed again," Reinard said, eyes still on his plate.
"Yes, Father," I answered.
Silence.
"Do you understand what that implies?"
That I'm weak? That I'm an embarrassment? That I should stop trying?
"Yes," I said calmly. "It implies I pushed myself beyond my limits."
Lucien snorted.
Caspian frowned slightly.
The duke's gaze finally lifted, fixing on me like a blade testing its edge.
"And yet you continue."
I met his eyes.
"I believed effort could compensate for talent," I said. "I was mistaken."
The room went quiet.
That was not what Rias was supposed to say.
The duke studied me for a long moment.
"…A rare admission," he said at last.
Lucien leaned forward, interest clearly piqued. "So what now? Giving up sword training?"
I shrugged weakly. "I value my bones."
Kael choked on his drink.
Elisa covered her mouth, eyes widening slightly.
Even the Duchess looked surprised.
Caspian spoke for the first time, his voice steady and cold. "A Leonhart does not abandon strength."
I turned to him. "And a dead Leonhart has even less use."
Lucien burst out laughing.
"Father," he said between chuckles, "I think he's finally developed survival instincts."
The duke did not laugh.
But the corner of his mouth twitched.
Barely.
"Rias," he said, standing. The pressure in the room intensified instantly. "You will recover fully before resuming any training. This is an order."
"…Yes, Father."
He paused, then added, "You will also attend the academy entrance evaluations next month."
My heart skipped.
The academy.
The place where the story truly began.
Where monsters were born.
And where side-characters were crushed casually underfoot.
Lucien grinned like he'd just received front-row tickets to chaos.
"Well," he said, standing as well. "This just got interesting."
As the family rose and began to leave, Elisa lingered behind. She approached hesitantly.
"Rias," she said softly. "Please… take care of yourself."
I smiled at her.
"I plan to."
She nodded, unsure, and left.
When the hall finally emptied, I exhaled a breath I hadn't realized I was holding.
So these were the lions of the Leonhart den.
Powerful. Brilliant. Dangerous.
And I was the weakest among them.
I leaned back in my chair, exhaustion washing over me—but beneath it, something stirred.
Anticipation.
"Alright," I murmured to myself. "Let's see how long a side-character can survive… when he knows the script."
Somewhere deep in the ducal estate, the game had begun.
And for the first time—
I intended to play it.