The narrow corridors of House Armathorne were where the second of her dreams began.

Seraphina could remember the biting chill of the stone beneath her soft shoes, and the way every hallway seemed too quiet, but never truly silent.

There were always voices lurking in the masonry.

Servants constantly lined the walls as she passed, guards purposefully standing straighter than necessary, and maids lowering their heads only after ensuring she had already walked close enough to hear their whispers.

They consistently spoke as though she were deaf.

“Did you hear the news? The child the Duke brought home is a mistress’s daughter.”

“A mistress? From a noble house?”

“No, it’s infinitely worse. I heard from the guards that her mother was a whore from the Rose Pavilion.”

A series of sharp gasps always followed.

“How thoroughly disgusting!”

“They say the Duke executed that vile woman because she kept clinging to his armor, trying to blackmail her way into the family.”

“How cursed do you have to be for your own mother to be slaughtered because of your mere existence?”

“His Grace is a saint for even allowing that thing inside these pristine walls.”

“Saint? If it were any other noble house, she would have been left in the gutters to rot.”

“She should spend every second of her life proving she deserves to breathe our air.”

“And on her knees, if she has any decency!”

Though she was far too young to comprehend their cruel statements, her instinct had already decoded her placement within the household.

She was a reject.

The word was never thrown directly to her face during those early years, but it settled into her understanding all the same.

But none of that malice mattered to her.

The legendary name of Armathorne held only a single meaning in her isolated world:

Her father.

As long as he granted her his acknowledgment, the rest of the universe held zero value.

She did not require the acceptance of the household; she did not need the fake kindness of servants, nor the pity of people who whispered like cowards whenever she walked past.

She only needed to be useful.

The Head Butler, Harold, had explained to her once, carefully choosing his words as though afraid of revealing too much:

“In this fortress, usefulness is measured strictly by strength.”

The Armathorne bloodline was built on a legacy of Holy Swordmasters, blessings, and iron-willed men and women alike who had carved their names into battlefields and history alike. Weakness possessed no rights within these high halls.

So, tiny Seraphina chose strength.

She trained ruthlessly under the tutors assigned to her, rewriting her standing through blood and sweat.

At age four, she successfully received her very first divine Blessing from the High Temple.

At ages five and six, two more distinct heavenly blessings followed in rapid succession.

At age seven, her core mana nodes awakened, revealing an affinity no one else in her family line possessed. It was something that should have been celebrated as a miracle, but was instead regarded by everyone with extreme caution.

At age eight, her proficiency with both the sword and the spear completely surpassed every single peer her age.

At age nine, her physical body underwent an excruciating reconstruction to properly stabilize the overwhelming and conflicting forces of her internal mana and divinity, achieving a rare state of harmony.

At age ten, her divine power began to actively outweigh her standard mana reserves, her blessings resonating constantly through her veins as though something dark inside her body refused to remain still.

In a mere six years of brutal discipline, a child achieved what elite knights could not accomplish in a lifetime.

And slowly, the whispers in the corridors began to shift.

“I heard she defeated Young Masters Kael and Kaiden again.”

“Not just the younger ones. Even the eldest sons lost against her during the open sparring matches this morning.”

“Unbelievable…”

“Well, filthy whore’s blood is still blood. I suppose she is a true Armathorne after all.”

“As expected of His Grace’s lineage.”

Their praise was never clean.

It always arrived with a dose of poison tucked neatly beneath the compliments.

But she didn't care.

None of their pathetic voices mattered compared to his.

“Hm. It is unexpected, but you’re improving quite rapidly.”

Pat.

His heavy hand rested on her head for a fleeting moment.

“Keep being useful to me, Seraphina.”

Then, he turned around.

“Good work.”

Saying nothing more, the Duke walked right past her small frame, treating the interaction as though it held no more significance than passing a statue.

However, she stood frozen in that exact spot long after his footsteps faded down the hall, as if time itself had locked her in place.

Her tiny chest tightened violently as her vision blurred with unshed tears.

“Papa…”

The word barely managed to escape her trembling lips before hot tears cascaded down her cheeks.

Her father had praised her performance.

He had looked directly at her.

He had acknowledged her.

That single touch felt infinitely warmer than every passing season she had survived.

She wept like a child because, in that exact moment, that is exactly what she was.

He was proud of her, and that was more than enough.

She had finally achieved usefulness.

If this was what it took to earn his gaze, then she would keep performing forever.

If absolute strength was what his pride demanded, then she would provide him with more power than anyone else on the continent.

If unyielding utility was his requirement, then she would make herself entirely indispensable to his grand designs.

She would gladly hand over every piece of her soul if it meant he would continue to look at her with those steady green eyes.

She chased that fanatical belief without stopping, without a single question, and without a moment of hesitation.

Until the year she turned sixteen.

◈—◈—◈—◈—◈

“My Lady, congratulations on achieving your seventy-seventh consecutive victory.”

The praise flowed easily now.

The servants bowed significantly lower.

The tutors spoke with pride, and the seasoned knights watched her movements with caution.

But while the physical distance between her and the rest of the estate changed, the distance between her and her biological half-brothers only grew progressively worse.

“Young Master Rokan, I would like to formally request a bout—”

Her polite sentence was violently cut short as her hand was aggressively struck aside with enough physical force to sting her skin.

Rokan Armathorne glared down at her as though her mere existence was an active insult to his nobility.

His eyes carried the exact same striking shade of green as their father’s, yet where the Duke’s eyes had once held a glimmer of pride, Rokan’s held nothing but pure contempt.

The Duke had seven legitimate sons before her arrival.

They were the true heirs of the duchy; men raised from birth to inherit a legacy she was forbidden to touch.

Seraphina had never once coveted their inheritance, but her monstrous strength was more than enough to threaten their positions anyway.

She constantly surpassed them, and that embarrassment drove them mad.

They loathed her for it.

That much, she could easily tolerate.

Hatred was a simple and predictable equation to solve.

But even hatred possessed a line.

“You witch.”

Rokan jammed a heavy finger directly against her forehead, shoving her head back.

“Who the hell do you actually think you are in this household?”

Another violent jab.

“The only reason you keep winning these bouts is because of those unnatural blessings you parade around. Don’t start deluding yourself into thinking you possess an ounce of actual human worth.”

The remainder of her half-brothers stood in a loose circle around them, watching the degradation play out. Not a single soul intervened, or looked away.

“Are you trying to flaunt your power to the court?”

Rokan sneered, his spit hitting her cheek.

“Parading your divine marks like some desperate, starving mutt begging the Master to be acknowledged?”

“No,” Seraphina said quietly, her head lowered as she shook it. “I never intended to—”

“Shut your mouth.” His voice cracked through the training hall like a leather whip. “I didn’t grant you permission to speak to me.”

He paused, a vile grin twisting his features as he leaned down to whisper in her ear.

“How can the bastard daughter of a whore dare to stand above our bloodline?”

Seraphina kept her gaze fixed on the floorboards.

The answer didn't matter.

The insult was a familiar script she had heard for years.

“I’m… I’m deeply sorry,” she murmured.

For a brief second, the training hall stilled. Then, Rokan burst into an ugly laugh.

“Sorry?” His expression twisted into pure malice. “Are you actually pitying me right now, you lowborn freak?”

“No. I—I would never—”

“You need to be thoroughly corrected.”

With a sudden, violent motion, Rokan grabbed her by the hair, fist bunching into her long red locks, and slammed her down so hard her knees cracked painfully against the stone floor.

Sharp, radiating pain shot through her legs, but a deeper, more painful ache bloomed within her chest.

The other brothers stepped closer, their oppressive presences closing in on her from all sides, their eyes starving for her humiliation.

“Right… from the very beginning, this is how your positioning should have been.”

Rokan's eyes gleamed with a thoroughly disgusting, predatory light as his hand reached aggressively for her collar, tearing at the fabric.

“Let’s see if the courtesan’s daughter inherited her mother's true talents.”

And at that exact millisecond—Seraphina did not comprehend what broke.

One second, she was pinned to the cold floor.

The next, her entire world turned into a blinding and horrific red.

BOOM—!

The shockwave that burst from her physical frame was immediate, absolute, and suffocating.

With it came a bloodlust so violent that it swallowed the entire estate whole.

The weight forced every single human being in the room to freeze instantly, as if an invisible hand had seized them and flatly refused to let go.

Seraphina did not understand the phenomenon.

She didn't even try to.

Something was forming within her right palm—a murky and shifting mass of darkness that remained highly unstable and was shaped entirely by survival instinct.

Her brilliant gold eyes bled into a blinding and hollow abyss of pitch-black.

They were cold, distant, and vacant, as if something monstrous had possessed her flesh.

“Ah—!”

Rokan fell backward so rapidly he nearly tripped over his own boots, scrambling across the floorboards like panicked prey fleeing a predator. The other brothers were in no better condition.

For the first time in their aristocratic lives, their arrogance was replaced by something entirely raw and primal.

Fear.

A fear so striking that they could barely pull air into their lungs beneath the crushing gravity of her presence.

“You…”

Rokan’s voice cracked, his face entirely pale.

“What… what are you…?”

When Seraphina spoke, even her own ears failed to recognize the sound.

The voice came out incredibly low and distorted, as if it belonged to an entity merely wearing her skin.

“The next time you lay a finger on me…”

She slowly raised the black mass, the dark energy around her arm twisting like smoke.

“…I will kill you.”

SLAM—!

Just then, the heavy double doors to the training hall were thrown open.

Harold stood at the threshold, breathing heavily and his usual and perfect composure entirely shattered.

And right behind him—stood the Duke.

His mere presence instantly broke the absolute stillness of the room.

His cold green eyes took in the entire layout in a sweeping glance:

The sons cowering on the ground.

The pressure vibrating in the air.

Her.

The Duke's expression hardened into stone.

“Enough.”

The word sliced through the pressure like a blade.

The very next moment, before she could even track his movement, the Duke materialized directly in front of her.

His large, gloved hand aggressively seized her by the ear, yanking her up with brutal force.

The sudden contact instantly shattered her focus.

The dark power collapsed into nothingness, and the suffocating blackness vanished from her eyes.

Her vision cleared all at once, and a wave of pain rushed back into her skull.

She fell forward, her breath catching in her throat as her heart hammered violently against her ribs.

“Heuk… Papa, I—”

“Do not open your mouth.”

He dragged her out of the hall without slowing his pace for a single second, his grip forcing her to stumble blindly with every step.

Her body was physically unable to keep pace with his long strides, her words breaking apart in her throat before they could form.

By the time they crossed his private office, she could barely stand on her own two feet.

The heavy door slammed shut behind them, locking out the world.

“Papa—”

SLAP—!

The sharp sound of flesh striking flesh echoed through the room before the burning pain even registered.

Her head snapped violently to the side.

Her body froze in shock, but a second strike landed even harder, forcing her mind awake.

It was the first time in sixteen years he had ever laid his hands on her.

It hurt, but the burning pain on her cheek was nothing compared to the agony blooming in her chest as she looked up into her father’s eyes.

His green pupils, which had once held a glimmer of pride, were now staring down at her with absolute contempt.

“What… have you done?”

“…I—I don’t know what happened,” she trembled violently, her voice cracking as she clutched her bruised face. “Something took complete control over my body, and—”

“You almost slaughtered my sons!”

His voice exploded, unhinged and sharp enough to crush the air between them.

“You raised that filthy, abominable thing inside your flesh against my sons!”

—!

Suddenly, the realization of the demonic seed flashed through her mind like lightning.

Her lips parted in guilt.

“I—I didn’t mean to release it—”

The Duke’s hand clenched into a tight fist at his side, his visible restraint thinning to a razor's edge.

“You stood inside my fortress and unleashed that vile corruption within my house, against my own bloodline, and now you dare stand in front of my desk telling me you did not mean it?”

Her fingers shook uncontrollably.

“I-I was only trying to stop them from hurting me… I couldn’t control the pressure—”

“Stop them?”

His voice rose again, harsher this time, cutting straight through her defense.

“You felt the need to stop them?”

He took a slow, menacing step closer.

“My sons needed to be stopped by a creature like you?”

The next words came out incredibly slow, each one deliberate and drenched in ice.

“Or are you trying to imply that they were the ones who pushed you to the point where you believed you held the right to turn that demonic filth upon them?”

Her throat closed completely.

She could not form an answer.

His gaze sharpened into needles.

“That is precisely what I thought.”

His conclusion arrived without a hint of hesitation.

“You have significantly begun to misunderstand your position in this House.”

Her breath faltered entirely. “I was only trying to be useful to you—”

“Useful?” The word snapped out of his mouth like a gunshot. “Do you honestly believe this treasonous display is useful to me?”

His voice boomed, louder than before, rattling the glass cases in the office.

“Do you think I brought an anomaly like you into this house so you could stand over my heirs and threaten their lives with a power you cannot even comprehend?”

Each sentence struck her soul harder than the physical blows.

“You are not here to prove your worth to the court.

“You are not here to compete with the legitimate bloodline.

“You are not here to defend yourself from their corrections.”

The last sentence came out slow and dead.

“You are here to endure.”

Her vision shook as her fingernails dug into her palms until blood began to well.

“If they strike your face, you endure it.

“If they speak down to you, you listen.

“If they stand above you, you remain broken beneath them.”

There was no hesitation or mercy within his decree.

“No matter what they do to you.”

His voice dropped to a pitch that felt entirely foreign.

“And you do not get to stand there after what you have done and address me as your father as if nothing has changed.”

Something inside her chest twisted and broke.

“If that rotting filth inside your soul cannot be controlled, then your existence is no longer a mistake.”

He stepped into her personal space, his green eyes locking onto her wide, terrified pupils.

“It is an active threat to my lineage. And I do not tolerate threats.”

Her breathing grew shallow and wildly uneven.

“…I will control it,” she pleaded quickly, her voice pitching into absolute desperation as she reached for his cloak. “I will do better, Papa. I will never allow it to slip past my skin again—”

“You should have ensured that before today.”

There was no softness in his reply.

“I explicitly commanded you to be useful. And you have failed to comprehend the meaning of the word.”

An unforgiving silence settled over the office.

“My sons are above you,” the statement arrived again, carved into her psyche like a brand. “That dynamic will never change, no matter what achievements you bring home.”

He looked down at her tattered collar, his voice completely devoid of life.

“If you cannot exist within that specific position… then you have no remaining reason to stay within these walls.”

The words did not sound like anger anymore.

They sounded like a finalized decision.

Her fingers curled weakly into her palms.

“…Yes.”

Her voice came out faint, like the hollow echo of a child.

“I understand.”

But even as the compliance left her lips, her chest felt as though it were collapsing in on itself under the weight of a black hole.

“…Do not make me regret keeping you alive.”

That was the last thing Duke Zorack said before dismissing her existence, turning his back to look out the window.

And in that exact moment, standing alone in the center of the grand office with her face still burning from his gauntlet and her lungs too tight to draw any air, Seraphina realized a truth she could never undo.

The way he looked at her had changed.

‘It’s all my fault… it’s all… my fault…’

She had misunderstood her utility. Her father had never expected greatness or victory from her; he had expected total and absolute submission.

And yet, like a mindless and ungrateful brute, she had almost brought ruin to his house.

From that day forward, Seraphina stopped winning.

She intentionally adjusted her sword strikes to miss by a hair.

She artificially slowed her reaction times.

She threw match after match, losing again and again, even when victory was within an arm's reach.

The physical bruises on her skin remained unhealed.

The verbal insults progressively worsened.

Whatever flimsy and superficial respect she had earned within the mansion vanished overnight, returning straight to its roots.

The servants no longer bothered to lower their voices when she walked past.

Her brothers did not hold back their fists during training.

She endured every single layer of abuse without a single spark of resistance.

Because she desperately believed that if she followed his brutal words perfectly—

He would eventually look at her the exact same way he once had.

But the distance between them never closed.

It only continued to widen into an abyss.

Her restraint did not bring approval.

Her flawless obedience did not bring a single word of acknowledgment.

Her usefulness no longer seemed to matter to the Duke.

And the demonic entity slithering inside her soul did not remain quiet, either.

Ignored and unsealed, it grew stronger, and harder to contain with each passing day.

Eventually, a few months later, the Duke placed a ring upon her finger.

“This artifact will limit your divine blessings,”

His tone carried no more warmth than ice.

“Learn to control that filth without relying on heavenly crutches.”

With a single sentence, the only true leverage she possessed against the demonic seed's corruption was brought to an end.

The Restrict did not help her condition and crippled her natural defenses.

It made the daily internal battle a living hell, forcing her to fight the creeping madness completely alone in the dark.

Her control slipped further with every setting sun, and the corruption built faster beneath her skin.

And not long after that, the third set of dreams began.

A strange and persistent dream that defied the darkness of her life.

And within that dream, there was someone who did not look at her from a distance.

Someone who never turned their back to her.

Someone who never changed.