Night of June 28th, Count of the Borderlands’ residence.
The waxing crescent moon hung alone in the deep night sky, the surrounding stars sparse and dim, their light blurred as if veiled in an invisible gauze.
The cold moonlight streamed through the tall floor-to-ceiling windows of the Stern family’s dining room, casting long, sharply divided beams on the floor, precisely splitting the lengthy oak dining table into distinct realms of light and shadow.
Count of the Borderlands, Friedrich von Stern, sat at the head of the table.
The stern expression he usually wore was much softened tonight, even bearing a rare hint of a smile.
His lawful wife—Katharina von Stern, daughter of the Duke Elector of Ostmark—and their three sons clustered closely at his side, basking in the warm glow radiating from the candelabrum atop the table.
Lady Katharina, noble in blood and beautiful in appearance, had set aside her usual air of pride, gazing gently at her husband and eldest son, their exchanges brimming with a sweet and spicy affection.
“Father, in another year, I’ll be able to enroll at Saint Nora Academy of Crestology.” The Count’s eldest son, the youth named Konrad von Stern, spoke with a tone laced with pride.
“I’ll definitely strive to become the top of my year, and aim to join the Royal Knight Order to bring honor to you and our family.”
“Mm, do your best, Konrad. Father eagerly awaits that day,” Friedrich nodded approvingly, his gaze brimming with paternal pride.
“Friedrich, don’t spoil him too much,” Lady Katharina shook her head gently, a trace of playful reproach in her tone though her eyes still sparkled with amusement. “
After yesterday’s Celebration Banquet, he got into another quarrel with the youngest son of the Bourbon Family, and the two even ended up fighting in the Palace Garden. Tell me, is that any way for nobles to behave?”
Friedrich put down his silverware, raising an eyebrow in mild surprise. “Oh? Did you win?”
“Of course I won.” Konrad grinned and rubbed the bridge of his nose, where a barely noticeable bruise remained.
“Our family just won a great victory, and that guy had the nerve to look down on us. He said, ‘My father is the Kingdom’s Marshal, he fights the Empire’s elite, what’s so great about cleaning up a bunch of Sea Raiders?’ I couldn’t stand it, so I gave him a beating.”
“Well done.”
Friedrich snorted, recalling how he had become one of His Majesty the King’s trusted confidants, and knowing it was only a matter of time before he’d clash with those entrenched noble swordbearers of the old Kingdom. He no longer bothered to maintain the appearance of harmony.
“Our Stern family may lack many things, but not backbone and grit. So what if he’s the Kingdom’s Marshal? So what if he’s the Duke of Bourbon? Your father is still the commander of the Capital Guards; all the guards in the capital answer to me. If they have the guts, let them complain to His Majesty themselves.”
“As expected of Father!” The two younger sons also looked at him with eyes full of admiration.
This greatly satisfied Friedrich’s sense of pride.
The warm candlelight dispelled the chill brought by the moonbeams, and the image of this family of five, happy and harmonious, felt especially warm.
Yet at the edge of this golden glow, at the far end of the long table, in a shadowy corner barely touched by moonlight, Livia von Stern silently ate her dinner.
Though nominally part of this family, she seemed more like a ghost that everyone instinctively ignored or excluded.
She deliberately avoided glancing at that warm family scene, instead lowering her head, silently bearing the suffocating loneliness and oppressive atmosphere surrounding her.
Even the Servants who moved about to attend to the table unconsciously steered clear of her, not daring to make eye contact or exchange words with the real Noble Lady of Stern, as if she were some ill omen.
Most of the time, Lady Katharina was gentle toward the Servants—but toward Livia, the illegitimate daughter her husband sired before marriage, she held a near-bone-deep resentment and rejection.
Any Servant who dared show Livia kindness or sympathy would immediately incur the mistress’s wrath.
Especially today, when the lady had learned Livia had dared to tear up her engagement contract with the Laval House, she had been so furious she shattered a set of fine porcelain she had dearly loved.
Now, no one dared provoke this mistress—gentle on the surface, but burning with rage beneath.
Livia knew full well that her actions had gravely angered both her father and this “mother.”
So she merely finished her meal quickly and quietly—the same food as the others, but which tasted especially cold—then softly said, “I’ve finished. Father, Mother, I’ll excuse myself now.”
No one responded. The light laughter at the table did not pause for a moment, as if she had never spoken, or even existed.
Only the eldest son, Konrad, shot her departing figure a fleeting, complicated glance.
Livia picked up her plate and walked to the kitchen herself. Yes, she did not even have a single Servant dedicated to her.
The reason was simple: it was a rule set by Lady Katharina.
Katharina wanted Livia to always “remember” that her mother had been a lowly Servant, that as an illegitimate child, she did not deserve a true noble lady’s privileges.
Allowing her to dine at the table was already the greatest “favor” extended—out of respect for Friedrich’s bloodline and the Count of the Borderlands’ insistence.
Escaping that suffocating dining room, Livia locked herself in her bedroom.
Unlike other noble girls’ rooms filled with exquisite gifts, cute decorations, and romantic warmth, hers was shockingly bare: just a bed, wardrobe, desk, a small bookshelf, a few essential gowns her father bought for her, her cherished books, and the sword she valued as life. Nothing more.
Livia took off her shoes, not even bothering to light the lamp. She just curled up by the window, using only the faint moonlight filtering in from outside.
Hugging her knees to her chest, she rested her chin atop them, gazing blankly out at the silent night sky, her eyes almost empty, lonely.
She had lived this way for many years. Those rare moments when she could follow her father onto the battlefield and briefly breathe the air of freedom were rare and precious.
Most of the time, she was like a canary locked in a gilded cage, trapped in the manor, so lonely she’d lost the desire—and the courage—to even sing.
Marianne had once hoped she would spread her wings and soar freely across the sky, but she had failed.
She had also failed to fulfill that promise made beneath the stars—to become Marianne’s hero, belonging to her alone.
She had even gradually lost hold of her own desire to save others and pursue justice.
“Livia, you can’t do anything. You’re no hero.”
Whenever she sank into this deep self-loathing and doubt, those gentle and seductive whispers from the “stars” would timely echo in her mind.
They comforted her, saying that all her current suffering was merely a necessary trial on the road to becoming a true hero.
They told her she was destined to be a free bird soaring high above, her wings simply not yet strong enough, and that all her endurance now was for a more dazzling bloom in the future.
Livia had tried hard to believe them, so she strove to play the perfect knight, uphold chivalry, and stick to her vows.
But ever since that moment at the Triumphal Parade when she locked eyes with Allen de Laval, she had never heard the “stars’” voices again.
They had fallen silent, as if they had never existed. Could it be that even her only, “selfless” “friends” had finally abandoned her?
Yes, Livia knew deep down that she was never truly a hero. Somewhere inside, the shadow of that frightened, sensitive, fragile girl who’d hidden away with her mother in her early years still lingered.
It was Marianne’s courageous knock on her door, that first invitation, that gave her the courage to open the door, to step out of her self-imposed prison, and try to breathe the air of freedom and become the person she longed to be.
But now, she had lost Marianne. And perhaps, thanks to her own recklessness, she had also lost those “friends” who once “accompanied” her.
But… were they really her “friends”?
Suddenly, Livia recalled that scene from the last Reincarnation Nightmare, Allen de Laval’s deranged, mocking sneer before his death—
“You’re all nothing but slaves of destiny! I don’t have your cursed Bloodline of the Sigil. I get to be free, while you’re doomed to eternal damnation!”
“The Engraved Mark isn’t a blessing, it’s actually a trap set by an evil god…”
And that moment, that cold and unfamiliar power that controlled her body, that guided her sword to pierce Allen’s heart with terrifying precision…
Who was that, truly? Could it really be those “friends” she’d called her own?
If Allen de Laval were the true mastermind, why would he reveal all this to her?
He couldn’t possibly know she could hear the “Star Whisper,” so there was no need to drive a wedge between her and them this way.
Livia still tended to believe Allen was evil, but at this moment, she couldn’t help but doubt herself as never before.
Was she really, as the “stars” claimed, a hero destined to save humanity—and not a hidden destroyer?
Livia was a devout believer. This wasn’t contradictory.
Though many noble scions of the Bloodline of the Sigil disliked the Imperial Church’s criticism of the sigil’s sanctity, they still, for the most part, believed in the sleeping Creator.
Naturally, Livia had studied the Holy Book thoroughly.
She knew how the mythic Paradise built by the Creator was step by step destroyed, and how the scripture hinted, in veiled language, at those Evil Beings lurking in the depths of the stars, destroying humanity again and again.
Were her “Star Friends” truly angels who protected mankind—or something more akin to evil gods?
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