"Alice, wake up!"
"...Umm..."
Her eyelids fluttered open, vision blurry, neck aching as though someone had driven a stake into it.
"Amelia...?"
"Are you okay? Do you hurt anywhere else?"
Amelia’s voice was soft, tinged with relief, the concern of a close friend. But Alice’s mood plummeted cold and heavy despite that warmth.
"Did I... lose again?" she asked, her tone flat.
"Well... I don’t know," Amelia admitted, shaking her head. "The mercenary who carried you here didn’t say much. He just left you with me."
Alice shut her eyes tight, her pride twisting like a knife.
Julies. The demon. And now some thief. Not just any thief he was a demon thief—one who had the audacity to wear her attendant’s face, mocking her with every strike.
It was the third time.
And even with her ancestral sword, even with the new power surging through it, she had still been crushed.
"...Faceless Imposter."
Her teeth ground together, fury searing through her veins.
Worse than defeat was the insult. Aside from the bruise on her neck, she bore no real wounds. No cuts, no broken bones. He had beaten her—completely—without ever trying to kill her.
To him, she wasn’t even a threat. Just a toy to be played with.
"Ugh!"
She tried to rise, aura stirring again, but her body betrayed her. Her strength gave out, and pain lanced through her chest and neck.
"The price of overusing your aura," Amelia warned, pressing her back down gently. "If you move recklessly, you’ll tear your wound open worse!"
Alice’s frustration boiled over. She slammed her fist into the ground.
"Alice! Stop it!"
But she couldn’t—not yet. Her pride screamed too loud, her rage too wild. She pounded the floor again and again, knuckles raw, until they split and bled. It was childish, reckless, but necessary. If she didn’t vent now, the fury would rot inside her, festering until it hollowed her out.
Only after her fists throbbed and the sting dulled into a steady ache did she breathe again. Her chest rose and fell, ragged but steadier than before.
"Amelia." Her voice was low, hoarse. "I have a favor to ask."
Amelia froze, eyes widening.
A favor.
Alice never asked for favors. She was a noble, a ducal daughter—ordering, commanding, demanding, those were her ways. Asking a favor meant lowering her pride. It meant incurring a debt.
For her to say those words...
Amelia swallowed, unsure whether to feel honored or afraid.
"Alice...? A favor?"
Alice’s fists tightened against her knees, knuckles still bleeding.
"That Faceless Imposter... during our fight, he knew everything about me. My techniques. My weaknesses. Even the rhythm of my aura." Her voice trembled with restrained fury. "And yet I know nothing about him. Nothing—except that he’s a thief... and a demon."
Amelia’s lips pressed into a thin line. She had felt it too—the Imposter’s uncanny knowledge, the way he moved as if the duel had been rehearsed a hundred times.
Alice turned her head, finally meeting Amelia’s eyes. "That’s why I’m asking you. You’re the only one with ties to the underworld. If there’s even the faintest whisper, a rumor, a trail—no matter how small—I need you to find it."
Amelia’s chest tightened. She had expected Alice to demand more training, to double her sparring, to bleed herself dry in pursuit of strength. But this? This was different.
Alice wasn’t asking for power. She was asking for knowledge.
"...You’re serious." Amelia said softly.
"I’ve never been more serious," Alice answered, her pride stripped bare, her frustration raw. "I won’t be mocked again. If he treats me as a plaything, then next time, I’ll be the one holding the strings."
The weight of her words lingered in the room, sharp as the edge of a blade.
"...No, I’m sorry. Was that too much to ask? I’ll look into it myself."
"Alice, why do you say that?" Amelia’s voice was firm, almost too quick. "Of course, I can help."
There was something in her eyes now—an eager light, a strange fervor that Alice hadn’t noticed before.
That man really did create this opportunity, Alice thought. A follower would never miss the chance to close the distance with their idol.
"We’re friends, aren’t we?" Amelia added, extending her hand.
Alice hesitated only a moment before clasping it. Her lips curved into a small, genuine smile at Amelia’s insistence.
"Thank you."
"Is this something to be thanked for? It’s not a difficult favor."
Their eyes met, and suddenly both of them laughed—not the polite, restrained laughter of noble ladies, but something lighter, freer.
For that fleeting moment, the masks of formality slipped away. They weren’t daughters of great houses. They were just two girls finding common ground.
"Drink this for now," Amelia said, pressing a vial into her hand, "and return to the duke’s residence. I’ll gather information here. With the Faceless Imposter’s terrorist act stirring everything, now’s the perfect time."
"I’ll accompany you—ugh..." Alice tried to rise but winced as her body protested, her strength failing her.
"Don’t push yourself when you’re barely healed," Amelia chided, confident and resolute. "Leave it to me."
Alice let out a quiet breath, her stubbornness ebbing in the face of Amelia’s resolve.
"...Then I’ll leave it to you. I’ll be waiting for good news."
Amelia’s smile brightened the room as she turned and left, her steps brimming with purpose. Alice watched her go, and as the door shut, silence filled the chamber once more.
Her thoughts turned inward. Her original goal was clear: to recover quickly, to regain the strength that had been stripped from her.
But deeper than that, her heart whispered another vow.
Faceless Imposter. Just as you spared me, I’ll capture you with my own hands. And I’ll make you regret ever leaving me alive.
Her lips pressed into a hard line, her expression sharpening.
"Come to think of it... this birthday may be useful," she murmured to herself.
A thief was nothing but a criminal. And in her circle of acquaintances, there was someone who knew exactly how to deal with such criminals.
"I thought it would just be another tedious social affair. But this time... I must engage properly. Even if it’s only to drag you into the light."
She lowered herself carefully in front of the mirror. With steady hands, she uncorked the potion Amelia had given her and dabbed it over the bruises the dagger hilt had left.
The skin knit cleanly, the discoloration vanishing as though it had never been. But inside, the ache remained, and Alice knew healing potions couldn’t erase everything.
Her reflection stared back at her from the glass.
Her eyes—once clear, aristocratic and calm—now gleamed with a red intensity, as if blood had seeped into them.
Cold. Determined. Ominous.
Alice whispered to her own reflection, almost a promise:
"You’ll regret crossing me."