“Ham, look, your son—he’s so healthy, smiling right at you.”
“Mia, thank you for giving me a family!”
“Shall we give him a name?”
“Fros, Fros Camille. He will be my pride, our pride!”
The excited man held the swaddled baby, speaking eagerly to his wife lying in bed.
The newborn child vaguely sensed the emotions of his parents.
Though he had no clear thoughts, he understood that those who had brought him into this world were rejoicing for him.
So, he helplessly waved his tiny hands in response.
Flora watched the scene with a blank expression.
How could anyone remember the moment of their birth?
Even in another world, it was quite unbelievable.
So, was this a miracle crafted by the heavens for her?
Was it meant to tell her that once, her family truly loved her?
No.
Even though she saw the interaction between her young parents and her newborn self, it felt alien—this scene had nothing to do with her.
Perhaps because of this thought, the image shifted, and the boy in the swaddling clothes rapidly grew up.
He thrived healthily in a peaceful small town, gaining many playmates.
Boys roughhousing inevitably led to bumps and bruises, but his innate healing talent made him the leader of the children.
Surrounded by friends, he lived happily.
Time passed bit by bit.
One day, his father told him that a new neighbor had moved into town, and he could visit their home and play with the girl of the same age.
Thus, young Fros met a graceful and refined girl named Moriah, and they quickly became friends.
Flora didn’t want to watch this scene.
Thinking about what was to come made her heart ache.
But so far, the path Fros was on at the beginning of his life seemed unrelated to her current self.
It was like the future “Fros” would have had if she had never crossed over to this world.
Her wish was fulfilled.
The story didn’t unfold as she remembered.
Shortly after, Moriah left the town with her family, but the boy and girl kept writing letters back and forth.
Through his own efforts, young Fros earned the chance to study at the Imperial Academy.
Amid proud and admiring looks from his parents and playmates, he packed his bags and arrived at the capital, overwhelmed by the bustling city and its majestic, sacred aura.
Within the Imperial Library, housing countless texts he had never seen before—He met her again.
A much more mature youth encountered the elegant and beautiful girl just as he remembered.
Together, they became the top students of the academy, a recognized couple who formed an adventuring party, writing countless legends.
After completing their quests, they entered the halls of marriage.
Flora couldn’t bear it any longer.
This was a trap.
A terrible delusion carefully constructed by Moriah for her.
Built upon her most basic longing for a smooth, happy life, dreaming such dreams brought no benefit to her current situation.
It would drown her rational mind in this pitiful fantasy.
“Moriah… I just want to sleep, can’t you give me some peace? I’m already obeying you.”
The moment this thought surfaced, the images playing before Flora’s eyes shattered like broken glass.
She opened her eyes.
Morning sunlight poured into the room—still a girl’s chamber.
No matter how rational she was, the dreamlike scenes were inevitably contrasted against the current reality.
An emptiness, a loneliness naturally emerged.
Weariness and fatigue washed over her.
Fine, give up resisting.
Accept the image they want to shape, accept everything they have prepared for her.
It’s not that complicated.
A life much better than those dreams could be hers if she softened.
She shook her head, trying hard to dispel the feeling.
The room was empty; she had woken early.
The lingering scent of calming incense reminded her that what happened last night wasn’t just a dream.
Unsteady, she got up and walked into the bathroom.
Splashing cold water on her face, she looked at the mirror.
Even though she looked haggard, the girl reflected back was still so stunningly beautiful.
Gritting her teeth, she clenched her fist and struck the mirror.
“This isn’t me…”
She shouted angrily, her voice hoarse.
“This isn’t me!”
Tears mixed with the water as they streamed down.
Her eyes stung.
Covering her face, Flora’s sobs turned into cries of pain, but she could no longer cry any louder.
She was venting her emotions, telling herself she must struggle.
The dream was beautiful.
Becoming like this now was just her dreaming.
A dream woven by Moriah and the others for her.
If she couldn’t wake herself as she did in the dream, she would truly die.
Killed in a way even more cruel than death itself—completely erased.
Her blurry gaze shifted to the mirror.
The image flickered between the broken girl and the broken young man.
Enough.
She couldn’t go on any longer.
Just starting and already unable to bear it meant the chance of waking from this nightmare was slim.
Splashing water on her face again, the broken Flora disappeared.
Hesitating, she covered her face once more.
[Heal.]
This kind of self-deception, if she had to do it, then fine.
At least by putting on a composed appearance, it would show some resistance.
Looking at the mirror again, her swollen, tear-streaked eyes returned to normal, though the vitality in her spirit couldn’t be restored by healing magic—she still looked rather broken.
Flora patted her face and turned to leave the bathroom.
At the door stood someone.
Without greeting, she walked straight to the wardrobe, took out clothes, changed, then sat at the dressing table to fix her appearance.
She clumsily combed her long hair, attempting to put on light makeup.
Such a seemingly simple task was always so troublesome for her.
As the comb caught in her tangled hair again, a hand grabbed her wrist.
“I’ll do it.”
Rinko’s voice was calm, showing no sign of weakness, as if she had never been whipped.
Flora paused, didn’t reply, simply relaxed her hand and handed over the comb.
The two remained silent, exchanging glances in the mirror.
Neither brought up what happened in the early hours.
To them, that was a terrible memory.
Meals, etiquette lessons, meals, more etiquette lessons.
At set times, fixed tasks were assigned.
Flora mechanically cooperated with Rinko, going through the etiquette training Moriah and the others had prepared.
Except for Linko and a few maids, no one else came to her room.
The monitoring from the other side was less frequent and persistent than yesterday.
Everything seemed frozen in place, progressing according to the set rhythm.
Until night fell again, and as a cog in this small machine-like villa world, Flora finally had a brief moment to catch her breath.
[Think of it differently—just treat it like a job.]
She comforted herself to maintain a relatively good state, took off her shoes, climbed onto the bed, hugged her knees, and enjoyed the comfort that curling up brought.
Rinko, like yesterday, hadn’t left.
She spent the whole day breathing unnaturally heavy.
After finishing her duties, she leaned back in her chair with closed eyes.
That whipping was no joke.
For her to endure it so stubbornly, Flora couldn’t help but admire this ruthless woman.
“Rinko?”
She called softly, intending to gauge the real situation behind the monitors through her reaction.
The exhausted maid didn’t respond, just opened her eyes and gave her a glance, then pushed herself up and sat on the edge of the bed.
The movement almost made her collapse.
Flora hurried to support her, but when she touched Rinko’s feverish body, she noticed something else in her hand.
Her gaze grew more complicated.
Because it was a ring forged from pure red gold—the symbol of Meiphi’s identity.