Marquis Atticus Seymour gazed at his daughter with deep worry, his brows furrowing as guilt crept into his heart.
Aerith had always been a frail child, afflicted by a rare and cruel condition. Born with the capacity to hold only 10% of the mana- a normal person could, her body was as fragile as glass. She could neither perform magic nor withstand aura, and every movement was a laborious struggle. Mana deficiency was akin to suffocation—like lungs starved of air—which explained her constant fainting spells and the years she had spent confined to her bed.
It was for this reason he had sent her to the countryside estate, hoping the fresh air and quiet surroundings would aid her recuperation. Yet despite his efforts, her condition remained unchanged. Desperate, he had sought help from every corner—petitioning the temple's high priests, consulting magic scholars from Bayer Academy, even appealing to the reclusive archmages of the Adratan Empire's Magic Tower.
Atticus himself was no ordinary noble. A water mage capable of wielding fourth-rank spells, he commanded respect, though his family's influence paled in comparison to the empire's Four Great Clans. Most mages of his standing would have aligned themselves with the Magic Tower or the imperial court, but Atticus had devoted himself to one purpose above all else: finding a cure for Aerith.
Now, having just returned from the capital after his annual meeting with the vassals, the weight of their concerns bore down on him. The future of House Seymour was uncertain—without a viable heir, their legacy teetered on the edge of collapse.
Aerith was his only child, the sole heir to the Seymour name, yet her infirmity cast a shadow over her succession. Many vassals had voiced their doubts, proposing alternatives: adopting a child from the collateral branch to inherit the title, or arranging Aerith's marriage to a nobleman who would take the Seymour name.
Atticus had considered their suggestions, weighing each option with reluctant pragmatism. Yet, despite the grim prognosis—despite the healers' warnings that she might not live long enough to inherit—he clung to a fragile hope. Somehow, someway, her condition would improve.
"My precious Aerith... It's been a while. I'm sorry I haven't been able to visit you as often," Atticus said, his voice thick with guilt. "I've been busy. But from now on, I promise — Father will spend more time with you."
Aerith's lips trembled faintly at his words. Her gaze flickered from left to right, but she remained silent, her cold demeanor betraying no hint of emotion.Yet Atticus knew.He knew how lonely she must have felt, isolated in this vast estate, waiting for a father who hardly came. He knew she must have been deeply hurt, even if she refused to show it.
Slowly, Aerith reached out her pale, slender hand toward the bread before her and took a small, delicate nibble.
"It's alright, Father," she said softly. "You've done your best to make time for me. I appreciate it... truly."
"Shall we take a short walk in the garden after breakfast? We can talk among the flowers."
Aerith offered a small, sweet smile. "I would love to."
No sooner had she spoken than an aide hurried into the dining hall, his steps measured but urgent. Bowing respectfully, he leaned close to Atticus and murmured,
"My Lord, a message has arrived from Archbishop Tenelon."
Atticus nodded and rose from his seat, regret shadowing his expression as he turned to his daughter. "Forgive me, my precious. An urgent matter demands my attention—but I promise we shall take our walk this evening."
Reluctantly, he left her to dine alone, clinging to the belief that this duty, however painful, would secure her future. Once this ordeal is over, we will have all the time in the world, he told himself. I will make it up to her.
In his study, he wasted no time. "Prepare for departure at first light," he ordered his aide. "We ride for Genmel Monastery tomorrow." As his staff scrambled to arrange logistics and ensure the estate's stability in his absence, Atticus stood by the window, his fingers drumming an impatient rhythm against the sill. His pulse thrummed with restless hope.
"At last… a way to save her."
Then—a deafening crash. The clamor of shattering porcelain and frantic shouts erupted from the hallway.
xxxxxxx xxxxxxx
I internally panicked when the man who called himself "Father" apologized to this body. From his words, I gathered that he was an absentee parent, yet his concern for his daughter seemed genuine.In the end, I chose to go along with the flow.To my surprise, this body still remembered the elegance of dining and the refined cadence of noble speech. I hastily agreed to the man's invitation for a walk in the garden, not wanting to arouse suspicion. Surely, his real daughter would have been delighted to spend time with her father after such a long absence.
Forcing a smile, I did my best to appear genuinely happy to accompany him.As if on cue, his aide interrupted us before the conversation could go any deeper — a small mercy for which I was immensely grateful.
But just as I let down my guard, a name caught my attention from the aide's report: Archbishop Tenelon.
My mind snapped into sharp focus.That name stirred something in the recesses of my hazy memory.Then, like a slowly rising tide, realization dawned: I knew this world — albeit faintly. It belonged to a novel I had read long ago.The title? I could barely recall it. Something long-winded, typical of webnovels. Only a few words stuck with me — something like "Slit-eyed Villain" mixed within the endless babble of a title.
I forced myself to focus and sifted through the fragments of my unreliable memory, piecing together what little I could:
The main character of the novel had slit-like eyes.
He was a transmigrator, tasked with playing the role of a villain.
Archbishop Tenelon was a shady figure, entangled in some dark, convoluted scheme.
Other key characters existed, though I couldn't remember who — only that they were crucial to the grand plot.
Most importantly: If my so-called father got involved with Archbishop Tenelon, we were as good as dead.
Despite the heavy realization, I felt oddly calm.Death? It didn't scare me.Even before I ended up in this novel, death had been something I sought — a final escape.
With a quiet resolve, I resumed my breakfast, brushing aside my turbulent thoughts as though they were no more than a speck of dust floating in the vast universe.
Until—A violent pulse slammed through my head. My vision blurred, the world tilting around me. Before I could even react, my body collapsed, crashing onto the floor along with the clatter of fallen utensils and shattered porcelain.