I had attended my fair share of birthday parties in my previous life—everything from backyard barbeques to high-rise parties. But this? This wasn't a party. It was a festival of excess.
The Leone Family occupied a unique, terrifying niche in the Riversong Empire. Officially, they were the fourth most powerful house, trailing only the Royals, the Crowns, and the Novas. Unofficially, they were the Empire's shadow.
They controlled the underworld. Every illicit transaction, every secret informant, and every dark alley in Riversong ultimately reported to them. They were a mafia dynasty with a coat of arms.
The current Matriarch, a Grand Duchess like my mother, had earned her title in blood. She was a war hero who had purged enemy cells with a cold, surgical ruthlessness. But to the rest of the nobility, she was—and always would be—a "Mafioso" in a silk gown.
"As usual, that woman is flaunting her status like a common street boss," Emilia muttered, her eyes scanning the over-the-top decorations with visible distaste. "Hosting a national festival in her territory for a nine-year-old... It's gaudy."
"My dear," Arnold said, reaching over to offer a few soothing headpats—a move only he was brave enough to pull when she was in this mood. "You really must try to temper your dislike for the Leones, at least until we've finished the first course."
Emilia's animosity toward the Leones was a variable I hadn't accounted for. In the original novel, the Crowns and Leones were portrayed as distant but professional allies. Here, the tension between the two Grand Duchesses was thick enough to cut with a blade.
This was the problem with most stories—they were just blueprints. The actual world was far more complex, filled with personal grudges and political landmines that the author never bothered to write down.
The heavy, gold-leafed doors of the Leone estate swung open, and the chatter of the guests died down to a rhythmic hum of whispers.
Emilia led the way, looking like a masterpiece carved from a glacial peak. She wore a crisp, formal shirt paired with white jeans and white heel boots, draped in a snow-white overcoat that flowed behind her like a mantle of frost. The silver Crown insignia on her collar caught the light with every step—a silent reminder that while she was a guest, she was second to none.
Beside her, Arnold cut a striking figure in a bold, crimson suit. The combination of the red fabric, black shirt, and purple tie was a daring choice that would have looked garish on a lesser man, but on him, it exuded a charismatic, effortless handsomeness that balanced Emilia's cold aura.
I followed behind them, feeling the weight of the silk and wool. I had opted for a white, full-sleeved shirt under a tailored black coat and dark jeans, finished with polished black shoes. It was perhaps a bit too "mature" for an eight-year-old, but hey, let me show off a little.
Then there was Sophia.
I didn't even need to look back to know what she was wearing. I could feel the possessive weight of her gaze on my shoulders. She had discarded her original outfit choices to wear a white dress paired with an ankle-length black skirt and a black coat. She hadn't just coordinated with me; she had systematically mirrored my entire colour palette and aesthetic.
Standing next to me, she looked less like a sister and more like a twin shadow—a deliberate visual claim that we belonged together.
We moved deeper into the estate, passing security details that looked more like an elite strike force than party staff. People in tailored, bulletproof suits gripped high-tech military rifles, their gazes scanning the crowd with lethal intent. It was excessive even for a Grand Duchess—a silent admission that when you rule the underworld, peace is an expensive, fragile illusion.
"Ah, the stars of the evening have finally arrived," a voice smooth as aged whiskey cut through the air.
Grand Duchess Alexia Leone approached us, her presence commanding enough to pull the gravity away from the room. She was a vision of mature, dangerous elegance—piercing dark eyes framed by flowing, greige hair.
She wore a dark brown, floor-length gown that balanced provocation with power. A daring neckline and a thigh-high slit revealed black-clad legs, while her black gloves were accented with intricate gold hardware. Fixed to her collar was the Leone Insignia, glinting like a warning.
"Thank you for receiving us so warmly, Alexia," Emilia replied. Her smile was a masterpiece of aristocratic discipline, but to anyone who knew her, the stiffness in her jaw was a clear warning of a brewing storm.
"Don't mention it, Emilia," Alexia chuckled, her tone melodic and dripping with the pride of a woman who knew she currently held the centre of the room. "I am truly glad you managed to find the time for my daughter's little celebration." She offered a smirk that suggested she knew exactly how much effort it had taken for Emilia to play nice.
"It is a pleasure to see you again, Grand Duchess Leone," Arnold interjected, stepping forward with a calm, practised politeness that acted as a diplomatic buffer. "I trust life has been treating you well?"
"Fantastic, Arnold," Alexia purred, her gaze lingering on him with a bold, flirtatious shimmer. "Though I must say, the day has become significantly more fantastic now that you've arrived. It's lovely to see you're still as sweet as ever."
Beside her, I saw a small vein pulse on the back of Emilia's hand.
I stood there silently, Sophia practically a second skin against my arm, and made a mental note. Between this reaction and her scorched-earth response to Duchess Lax, it was clear: Emilia Von Crown was a woman of extreme, perhaps even volatile, maternal and marital protectiveness.
Quest: Become the Leone Family's Favourite
Reward: [Mark Of The Sword]
Penalty: Assassination
I stared at the glowing blue text, and for a fleeting moment, I considered finding the nearest decorative fountain and holding my head underwater until the simulation ended.
Becoming the "favourite" of a criminal nobility masquerading as nobility? What was the metric for that? How many bodies could I hide? How many trade routes could I sabotage?
"Deep breaths, Amon. Basics first."
I stepped forward, smoothly peeling myself away from Sophia's possessive orbit. I kept my movements fluid and respectful, bridging the gap between our families with the practised grace of a very careful actor.
"It is a profound honour to meet the Lady who single-handedly dismantled an army of the Empire's enemies overnight," I said, offering a deep, flawless bow. I kept my voice steady, projecting a level of sincerity that would have made a con artist weep. "Grand Duchess Alexia Leone, I can only hope that you will treat our family with your legendary kindness this evening."
I looked up, meeting her dark, predatory eyes with a genuine, warm smile.
Alexia blinked, her flirtatious smirk faltering for a fraction of a second as she actually looked at me. "Whoa," she breathed, her surprise breaking through her polished exterior. "Another normal person from the Crown Family? And he's a near-perfect mirror of Arnold, to boot. I must say, I'm genuinely shocked."
"I shall take that as the highest possible compliment, My Lady," I replied, my smile never wavering.
Internally, I was stifling a laugh. The bar for "normalcy" in the Crown family was apparently so low that basic manners and a lack of homicidal intent were enough to trigger a status effect.
. . .
The main hall was a sea of shifting silk and low-frequency gossip. While the adults engaged in the polite warfare of high society, the children of the elite darted between marble pillars, their laughter providing a bright, almost surreal soundtrack to the heavy atmosphere.
Near the grand buffet, Emilia, Sophia, and Arnold remained locked in a conversational stalemate.
"It's hard to believe, even now," Alexia said, her smirk widening until it was a sharp, prideful thing. She leaned slightly toward Emilia, her dark eyes glittering with mischief. "That you've managed to conceive such exact replicas of yourselves. It's almost uncanny."
"That is generally how genetics functions, Alexia," Arnold replied with a light, easy chuckle, seemingly oblivious to the lightning crackling between the two women.
"You're making it sound as if we've performed a miracle," Emilia added. Her practised smile remained fixed, but the air around her seemed to drop several degrees.
"I'm just saying~" Alexia's voice dropped into a thoughtful, dangerous purr. "I wonder how mine and Arnold's children would have looked…"
The silence that followed was heavy enough to sink a ship. A vein bulged visibly on Emilia's forehead, and her hand tightened around her champagne flute. "I would appreciate it if you refrained from making such... hypothetical comments regarding my husband, Alexia."
"It's fine, my dear," Arnold intervened, reaching out to give Emilia a calming series of headpats. He looked at Alexia with a patient, tired expression. "You realise she's only joking to see you get worked up, right?"
Alexia's laughter was melodic and sharp. "You're still the same as you were in our academy days, Emilia. Possessively attached to your precious biological brother."
"He was my brother then. He is my husband now. Get it right," Emilia snapped, though the irritation subsided marginally under Arnold's touch.
In this world, the concept of marriage between siblings was a perfectly accepted, albeit rare, practice among the high nobility to keep the purity of the bloodlines. In Amon's previous world, such a thing would have been a biological catastrophe.
But here, the marriage of magic and advanced technology had long ago scrubbed away the risks of genetic complications. A brother and sister could wed and produce heirs of staggering power and perfect health—a fact that only served to fuel the intense, territorial instincts of women like Emilia.
"Sorry for arriving late!" a voice called out, breathless and hurried. A woman rushed toward the group, her pace nearly breaking the dignified tempo of the gala. "I was tied up in surgery... a complication..." She came to a halt, panting slightly as she adjusted her glasses.
"It is quite all right, Silvia," Alexia said, her predatory smirk softening into a genuinely kind smile. "Had you missed the party entirely, we would have simply assumed you were busy snatching another soul back from the brink of death."
This was Silvia Sanguine, the Duchess of House Sanguine. In a world of cold politics and underworld dealings, Silvia was an anomaly—a world-class surgeon who treated the common folk for free and spent more time in a scrub suite than a throne room.
She was a striking woman, tall and blonde with sharp green eyes behind her spectacles. Her outfit was a chaotic blend of high society and high-stakes medicine: a formal shirt and knee-length skirt paired with black stockings and heels, all tucked beneath a functional medical apron. She looked less like a Duchess and more like a doctor who had accidentally wandered into a ballroom on her way to the OR.
"Silvia... why are you still in your work clothes?" Emilia asked, her expression deadpanning. "Don't tell me you rushed here and simply forgot to change?"
"That's exactly what happened, Emilia!" Silvia beamed, looking at her as if she had just said something incredible. "You're a genius, as always!"
Emilia let out a weary sigh, while Alexia's melodic chuckle filled the air. Arnold, ever the gentleman, offered a polite bow. "It is good to see you again, Lady Silvia," he greeted warmly.
"Geez, Arnold! How many times must I tell you? No formalities!" Silvia pouted, sounding genuinely wounded. "We're all friends here. Friends don't call each other formally, do they?"
"Alright, alright... Silvia. Happy?" Arnold corrected himself with a chuckle.
"Much better!"
"By the way," Emilia interjected, scanning the crowd. "Where is Zach? Don't tell me he's buried under the paperwork of your duchy again?"
"I was busy, Emilia, but I managed to finish just in time," a deep voice answered. A tall, broad-shouldered man with vibrant orange hair and piercing blue eyes stepped into the light. "Alexia mentioned you, and Arnold would be attending. I couldn't exactly miss that, could I?"
Zach Carlos Sanguine looked every bit the handsome patriarch. He wore a sharp red suit that mirrored Arnold's aesthetic, though his black shirt and red tie gave him a more aggressive, commanding edge. While Silvia handled the hearts of the people, Zach handled the iron-clad logistics of their house.
"So, what exactly did I miss?" Zach asked, his gaze sweeping over the trio before landing on his wife. He let out a long, weary sigh. "And Silvia, dear... the apron? Really? Why didn't you change into something more... appropriate?"
"There was a serious emergency, Orange!" Silvia shot back, using what was clearly a long-standing pet name. She beamed at him, completely unashamed of her medical attire. "I could hardly rush a delicate surgery just to make sure my attire was appropriate, could I?"
Zach rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Alexia," he said, turning to the hostess, "could you possibly arrange for a change of clothes?"
"Of course," Alexia nodded, a playful glint returning to her eyes. She strolled over and wrapped a familiar arm around Silvia's shoulder. "Most of my party gowns should fit her frame perfectly. Though..." She paused, her gaze dropping to Silvia's chest with a dramatic, exaggerated sigh. "Those 'jugs' of hers might pose a bit of a structural problem for my bodices."
"Oi! It isn't my fault your boobs are smaller than mine!" Silvia snapped, though her pout was more cute than truly angry.
"Dear, please," Zach interjected, his ears turning a distinct shade of crimson. "Let's watch the language. We are in public."
. . .
Amon navigated the sprawling estate with Sophia trailing him like a silent, elegant shadow. The irony wasn't lost on him—the very person who had ended his life in the original script was now refusing to let him out of her sight. It was a unique brand of mental exhaustion.
He stepped out of the noisy banquet hall and into a long, quiet corridor. The atmosphere shifted immediately.
While the Crown mansion was a monument to royalty and staggering wealth, the Leone estate felt like a relic of a darker, more romantic era. The hallway exuded a heavy, Victorian charm—dark wood, intricate moulding, and velvet accents that absorbed the sound of his footsteps. Amon found himself genuinely admiring the taste; it was a vibe that felt consistent with a family that ruled from the shadows.
"Elder sister," Amon began, stopping in his tracks. He turned to face her, his expression a mask of polite resignation. "Could you perhaps find it in your heart to join the other young ladies in the hall? I'm sure they're eager to allow you into their discussions."
"Firstly, I've told you to address me by my name," Sophia replied, her smile widening. She didn't look bored or annoyed; she looked like she was witnessing the most fascinating spectacle in the world. "Secondly, I have no interest in lady-talk. It's a tedious cycle of vanity—who has the best dress, who is the most beautiful. Why would I waste time on something so meaningless when I can simply observe you and soothe my eyes?"
"I need to lose her," Amon thought. "If she's attached to my arm, I can't exactly become the favourite of the Leones—I'll just be a chap with a clingy sister."
An idea sparked. It was a cheap trick, a move that belonged in a slapstick comedy rather than a high-stakes isekai, but with Sophia's current hyper-fixation, it might just work.
"Sophia, look! What is that?" Amon shouted, his voice laced with dramatic urgency. He pointed a finger toward the shadowed end of the hallway behind her.
"What?" Sophia spun around, her instincts as a warrior momentarily overriding her obsession. She scanned the empty corridor, her magium flaring slightly as she searched for a threat or a curiosity.
There was nothing. Only the still, Victorian air.
"Seriously, Amon—" she started, turning back with a frown.
The space where her brother had been was empty. The silence was absolute. He had moved with the silent efficiency of someone who had practised disappearing.
A single vein throbbed on Sophia's forehead. Her expression didn't shift into sadness; it hardened into a cold, predatory resolve. Her eyes shimmered with a dangerous, possessive light.
"He dares to trick me?" she whispered, the words sounding less like a question and more like a sentence. "He'll regret that. Oh, he'll regret that very much."
She didn't scream or run. She simply began to pace forward, her movements slow and deliberate, like a snow lioness starting her hunt.
Amon stepped out from the ornate frame of a nearby landscape painting, his form flickering as the high-tier illusion spell dissolved. "A wise investment," he thought, brushing invisible dust off his coat. "Mastering every illusion spell below SS-Grade was the only way to ensure a moment of peace in this house."
He moved through the quiet wing of the estate, his eyes scanning for any sign of the Leone heir. He nearly missed her. As he passed a set of heavy, glass-panelled doors, a flash of greige hair caught the moonlight.
Amon doubled back and pushed the doors open. The evening air was cool, carrying the scent of night-blooming jasmine and expensive tobacco from the gardens below. Standing at the edge of the stone balcony, framed by the shimmering tapestry of the stars, was a girl who could only be a Leone.
She was taller than Amon, radiating a precocious, cold authority. She was a mirror image of Grand Duchess Alexia, but her style was sharper, more utilitarian.
She wore an intricately designed dark grey dress paired with matching jeans and heel-boots—a "Mafia-Chic" aesthetic that felt both elegant and ready for a firefight. A small silver Leone clip pinned back her flowing hair.
As the doors creaked, she turned. Her expression was a void of neutral curiosity.
"Who are you?" she asked, her voice steady and devoid of the usual childish lilt.
"My sincere apologies for the intrusion," Amon said, falling back on his habitual mask. He offered a shallow, graceful bow. "I am Amon Von Crown. I've come to celebrate your birthday with my family at the earnest request of the Grand Duchess."
"I see," she replied, her gaze tracking him with an unnerving, clinical intensity. She looked entirely unimpressed by the pedigree. "How old are you?"
"I am eight years old, My Lady," Amon replied, looking up with a perfectly curated, innocent smile.
The girl's eyes narrowed slightly. "You're a year younger than me. And yet, you're acting so... diplomatically. It's a little overbearing, honestly."
Amon's mask slipped for a genuine second. A faint flush crept onto his cheeks as he realised his "perfect noble" persona had backfired. "Ah... my apologies. It was not my intention to make My Lady feel uncomfortable."
"If you truly don't want to make me uncomfortable, then drop the 'Lady' and talk to me like a human being," she said, her tone softening just a fraction. "My name is Costoria Leone."
"Alright, alright... Costoria," Amon conceded, his smile turning brighter and far more natural. "I'll speak normally."
"Good." A small, rare smile ghosted across her lips. "It's a relief to see there's a normal person in the Crown Family."
Amon tilted his head, genuinely curious. "Have you met with my parents?"
"A few times," she answered, turning back to the stars. "Your mother is like a frost dragon—beautiful, cold, and capable of freezing a room with a look. Your father... he reminds me of a workaholic bureaucrat. He's always so professional, it's like he's reading from a manual."
Amon let out an audible chuckle, the tension in his shoulders finally vanishing. "That is... a terrifyingly accurate description. You've got a sharp eye, Costoria."