Back in my room, I sat alone, my mind racing, my heart still heavy.
The sack on the table caught my attention. I untied the knot, and inside, glinting under the flickering candlelight, were forty-five platinum coins. Payment for the information I'd traded. More wealth than I'd ever held in my hands before.
And yet, it brought no satisfaction.
The fire of my anger hadn't dimmed, it had deepened. Hardened. When I finally took a moment to breathe, the system notified me of my newly acquired title.
[Title Acquired: Righteous Anger ]
You are angry. You feel conflicted at the nature of your anger. Will you use this anger to bring justice to the innocent… or will you destroy your enemies?
Rage-type skills are 25% easier to acquire.
The flames inside me didn't subside, but I forced myself into meditation. Breathing in, holding, then releasing. Slowly. Again.
I couldn't storm the castle. I couldn't assassinate the Crown Prince. Rage could sharpen steel, but only clarity could guide the blade.
Even in my past life, I never truly knew what the Crown Prince wanted or when he made his moves. I had regressed, yes. But unlike the protagonists in Sidney's stories, I didn't return with a script. I didn't know which events would unfold next.
All I had were fragments. Emotion. Instinct. A burning desire to protect my sister.
If I wanted to shield my family from the likes of Prince Jason…
I had to become so powerful that the mere thought of harming us would be unthinkable.
.
.
.
The sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across my room.
Then, a knock, hurried and frantic.
"Young Lord! Young Lord!!"
Hope's voice. Strained, panicked but oddly filled with urgency.
"Enter," I said, my voice low, controlled.
The door swung open. Hope stumbled in, his face pale, eyes wide. Not the same trembling servant who'd barely spoken to me this morning. Something had changed.
He bowed quickly.
"Young Lord, you are ordered by the Lord to join the dinner."
My father?
A family dinner was rare. But an invitation from Father himself? That was unheard of.
A small tremor of suspicion crept through my thoughts.
"Did he say why?"
Hope shook his head, lips pressed thin with uncertainty.
"Then help me change into something more appropriate," I said, rising.
Relief washed over his face. Without delay, he ran to the closet and began pulling out outfits with sudden enthusiasm, clearly grateful I hadn't shouted or refused.
I watched him for a moment, his energy almost boyish as he sorted through robes and coats, and I shook my head quietly.
Even now, with tension winding around my chest, I couldn't help but feel a strange warmth. Moments like these had been so rare in my previous life.
.
.
.
The dining hall was dim, its candles casting a soft golden hue across the long table.
As I entered, Father's gaze locked onto mine. Cold. Piercing. A look that could cut through flesh and bone and read your soul underneath.
I bowed.
"Greetings, Father."
He gave a curt nod and gestured to the seat at his right hand.
I hesitated for a heartbeat. That seat was usually reserved for favored guests, respected knights or Eloise, Never me.
I sat.
I also noticed something else: Eloise was not present.
Father gestured. The servants quietly filed out. The door shut. The sound of the lock clicking into place echoed like a sword being drawn.
Then silence.
Finally, he spoke.
His voice was low. Heavy.
"You shouldn't have gone to the slums alone."
I don't reply immediately.
There's no need.
His words weren't a question, they were a judgment.
I steady my breathing and meet his gaze.
"I had to confirm something with my own eyes."
He narrows his eyes.
"So you went to that place."
The weight behind that couldn't be missed. He didn't name it, but we both knew what he meant.
The Solitary Inn.
A place of secrets. A place noble houses pretended didn't exist yet all of them used.
"You knew about it?" I ask, testing.
His silence is answer enough.
He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table, fingers steepled. The candlelight catches in his eyes.
"You're still a boy. Yet you're already walking a dangerous path."
"If someone wants our family dead, then I have no time to remain a child."
His expression darkens. A flicker of something pain, pride, or regret crosses his face, then disappears.
"You know, then. About the assassination order."
It's not a question.
I nod slowly.
"Do you also know who gave the order?"
I study his face. He knows. I can see it in the tightness of his jaw. The clenched hand beneath the table.
"Crown Prince Jason."
He closes his eyes for a second, just a second but it's enough.
The truth is a blade he's been holding back.
"Why?" I ask. "Why would he order Eloise's death?"
His voice is a rasp, low and bitter.
"Because your sister… was chosen."
I blink.
"Chosen? For what?"
He looks at me now not as a father looks at his son but as one soldier to another.
"To become a Saintess."
That revelation hits like a storm. Pieces begin clicking into place in my head, fast and brutal. In the previous timeline, she'd died before ever showing signs of such a destiny. But if she lived longer this time…
She would awaken. She would shine.
And perhaps the Prince Jason, knew this. Feared it. Or worse… envied it.
"The Church hasn't announced anything," I say with flame in my voice.
"Not yet. But the signs are there. The priests have seen it. And so has the palace."
He leans back, and for the first time, he looks older tired.
"That's why I kept you both at the estate. Away from the capital. From eyes and whispers. But it seems…" he pauses, voice turning bitter again, "…we were already too late."
"Then we need to act," I say. "If Jason if the Crown Prince is willing to kill her, we can't stay passive."
He shakes his head.
"You don't understand what you're saying. He's not just a man. He's the next king. He has the support of half the nobles. If we move too openly, we'll all be branded traitors."
I clench my fists beneath the table,
Gods giving destiny to people without rhyme nor reason.
As if mortals were pieces on a board, shuffled and sacrificed for some grand game only they understood.
What did Eloise ever do to deserve that fate?
To be chosen a word so often wrapped in reverence, but here, it felt like a death sentence.
Saintess.
It sounded holy. Noble. But in this world, such titles were just gilded chains.
Maybe the gods didn't care. Maybe they never did.
They branded children with divine marks and called it "purpose." Gave power to tyrants and named it "order." Watched entire kingdoms crumble for the sake of their "balance."
And what of the rest of us?
Those without visions. Without voices from the heavens.
Were we just… filler?
I feel the anger churn again. That righteous anger.
Not blind rage but a slow, simmering fire.
If this is the gods' will…
Then perhaps it's time someone stood against it.
.
"Then we move in shadows."
He looks at me long and hard.
"That's not how I raised you."
"No," I say. "That's what almost got Eloise killed the first time."
His breath catches. His face pales. The pain of hearing it is enough.
"Give me the resources. Let me protect her. Let me do what you can't."
He says nothing. For a long time, only the soft crackling of the fire fills the silence.
Then he speaks.
"The world will try to burn her, Uvar. To see if she rises as a flame, or turns to ash. If you walk this path…" he fixes his gaze on me, "…there is no turning back."
I meet his eyes with steel in mine.
"Then let them bring the fire."