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LOCATION: MARQUIS CHEVALIER HOUSEHOLD
DINING HALL
Silence reigned within the dining hall.
As befitting a noble household, no one spoke. Chairs remained still, backs straight, hands composed. Only the faint clinking of utensils against porcelain echoed through the spacious room, accompanied by the measured footsteps of servants moving with disciplined precision as they attended to their duties.
They stood at a respectful distance when not serving—hands folded, eyes lowered—ready to act at the slightest command. No one dared break etiquette, for this hall belonged to the Marquis Chevalier household, where even the smallest misstep could invite punishment.
CLANG!
The sharp sound shattered the calm.
A sudden gasp rang out as a cup slipped from a servant's hands, its contents spilling forth—not onto the polished floor, but onto the exposed hand of a fifteen-year-old young master seated at the long dining table.
Steam rose faintly where the hot liquid met skin.
The atmosphere froze.
Everyone knew who he was.
The Third Young Master of the household—infamous for his volatile temper, his arrogance, and his habit of throwing violent tantrums whenever something displeased him. A single glare from him was often enough to make servants tremble, let alone an incident such as this.
The servant paled instantly.
She dropped to her knees without hesitation, her forehead pressing against the cold marble floor as her voice trembled with desperation.
"P-please forgive me! Th-this lowly servant begs for forgiveness! I was careless—please spare me!"
Her pleas spilled out one after another, hurried and frantic. Tears gathered in her eyes as her shoulders shook, making her appear pitiful and frail.
Around her, the other servants stiffened.
Some lowered their heads, sympathy flickering across their faces. Others cast subtle, sneering glances toward the kneeling figure, barely concealing their amusement at her misfortune. Yet none dared voice a word—not here, not now.
The family members seated at the dining table remained as composed as ever.
Utensils continued to move. Plates were lifted, sips were taken, and no one intervened. Still, though their faces were calm, all attention rested squarely on the Third Young Master.
Everyone waited.
All eyes fixed on the boy who had yet to react.
For a brief moment, the young master sat in complete silence.
Then, slowly, he reached for the tablecloth beside him and calmly wiped his dampened hand, dabbing away the remaining liquid with unhurried movements. His actions were neither rushed nor agitated—almost impossibly composed for someone known for explosive outbursts.
When he finished, he lowered his gaze.
His eyes settled on the kneeling servant.
At once, a chilling pressure seemed to descend upon the dining hall.
The young master's expression darkened—not in overt rage, but in something far more unsettling. Those who noticed the change felt their muscles tighten instinctively, a cold unease creeping up their spines.
Still, his family continued eating.
No one spoke.
No one interfered.
The Third Young Master did not spare a single glance toward his so‑called relatives. His entire focus remained on the servant before him, who continued apologizing between sobs.
In that moment, however, his thoughts drifted elsewhere.
Geez. I never would have expected you to be here, of all places.
A faint, inward scoff followed.
You want to play games? Fine. Let's see how long you can last.
He watched her closely.
From an outsider's perspective, the servant looked utterly pitiful—kneeling low, tears brimming, voice trembling as she begged for mercy. Any onlooker might feel compelled to step forward and protect her from the young master's notorious temper.
Yet, to him, the act was painfully transparent.
"Tsk."
A flicker of disdain crossed his eyes.
What a bunch of hypocrites.
If he were still the ignorant fifteen-year-old noble brat he once had been, he would have erupted by now—shouting, lashing out, demanding punishment for the servants who dared slight him. That version of himself would have relished the fear in this room.
But that boy no longer existed.
He was no longer a child who vented his frustrations through tantrums, nor someone who hungered desperately for acknowledgment from a family that never truly cared.
He was no longer someone foolish enough to believe affection could be won through obedience or manipulation.
For him—someone who had survived countless life-and-death situations over the span of a millennium, a dimensional traveler who had crossed multiple worldlines at the behest of an enigmatic system—this kind of scheme was nothing but child's play.
As he continued staring down at the servant, a slow, controlled grin tugged at the corner of his lips.
Beneath her lowered head and trembling shoulders, he caught it.
A fleeting smirk.
Just for an instant.
And that was enough.
Trying to scheme against me?
You still have a very long way to go.
The grin vanished.
"What's your name?"
The abrupt question cut through the hall.
His voice was calm—eerily so. Flat, impassive, and completely devoid of the fury everyone had anticipated.
A quiet ripple of shock spread through those present.
Several servants nearly gasped.
This wasn't him.
The Third Young Master didn't speak like this. He didn't sound so… controlled. So distant. Even his posture—straight, composed—felt wrong, as if something fundamental had shifted.
The servant stiffened at the sound of his voice but continued playing her role, hiccupping softly as she answered.
"T-this… l-lowly… o-one's… n-name is… Nariana."
He nodded once.
Nariana.
The name stirred something within his mind, memories clicking neatly into place.
Ah. Right. So, it's you.
His expression remained unreadable as his gaze swept across the hall. He could feel the tension hanging thick in the air—every breath measured, every movement restrained as all waited to see how this would end.
"Nariana," he said evenly. "I'll ask you one last question."
The servant looked up slightly, her eyes widening.
"Where does your loyalty lie?"
The question struck like a blade.
Not only Nariana, but everyone present froze.
Confusion rippled across their faces. Why ask such a thing? What did loyalty have to do with a spilled drink?
Whispers threatened to form but were swallowed before they could escape.
Among those seated, however, one person leaned back in his chair, interest gleaming behind his eyes.
The Second Young Master of the Marquis Chevalier household.
Known for his carefree demeanor and mischievous tendencies, he watched the scene unfold with keen attention, lifting his cup as though observing a performance meant solely for his amusement.
Oh?
A sharp one, aren't you, little three…
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