The bathroom was quiet now. Only the soft trickle from a silver faucet and the muted shuffle of bare feet against marble echoed through the ornate chamber.
On a wooden bench beside the wall lay a neatly folded set of clothes—black high-collared shirt, matching dark trousers, and a tailored jacket with gold embroidery. The fabric gleamed faintly under the warm light of enchanted lanterns, exuding both wealth and formality.
He began to dress.
The clothes fit his body without resistance. The shirt hugged his frame smoothly; the trousers were the perfect length; the jacket rested on his shoulders like a second skin.
He paused once he was fully dressed and turned to the mirror. The boy reflected back looked sharper than before—composed, elegant, aristocratic. A striking figure dressed in midnight and gold.
But beneath the clean lines and noble fabric, Trafalgar's jaw remained slightly tense.
He straightened the collar, adjusted the sleeves, then finally stepped away.
It was time to meet the man whose blood he now carried.
Or pretended to.
Just outside the bathroom, waiting in silence, stood a young maid.
She looked to be in her early twenties—slim figure, chestnut hair tied in a modest bun, and warm brown eyes that avoided direct contact. Her uniform was pristine, white-trimmed with dark blue, and her posture was rigid, as if every movement had been rehearsed a thousand times.
When she noticed Trafalgar stepping out, she lowered her head in a deep, respectful bow.
"Young master," she said softly, voice composed and professional. "I've been instructed to escort you to the study."
Trafalgar didn't speak immediately. His eyes lingered on her, curious. There was nothing particularly threatening about her—no magic, no weapon, no aura of menace. But there was something... off. Not in her appearance, but in her restraint. She stood as if on invisible strings, trained not to speak unless addressed, not to move unless told.
He gave a slight nod, and she turned without another word, guiding him through the hallways.
The corridors were long and elegant, lined with tapestries of silver and crimson, punctuated by towering windows that let in winter light. Every step echoed softly beneath the weight of nobility and silence.
As they walked, Trafalgar glanced sideways at her.
"What's your name?" he asked.
The maid hesitated for a fraction of a second. "I am not permitted to share personal information unless requested by the lord."
A quiet moment passed.
He said nothing more. And she, true to her training, did not speak again.
They continued in silence.
Toward the study.
The door to the study stood tall and silent, carved from dark walnut and inlaid with subtle silver lines that shimmered faintly in the light. The maid knocked once, then opened it without waiting for a response.
"Enter," she said softly, stepping aside.
Trafalgar crossed the threshold into a room that radiated power.
Bookshelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling, filled with tomes bound in leather and arcane script. A heavy desk dominated the center of the room, its surface clean, orderly—too perfect. The fireplace at the far end crackled gently, casting warm light over the figure seated behind the desk.
Valtair du Morgain.
His presence filled the room before he even spoke. A man of austere elegance, with dark hair streaked with grey at the temples and eyes like carved obsidian. His gaze lifted as Trafalgar entered, cold and unreadable, but not cruel.
"You took your time," he said, voice deep and measured.
Trafalgar halted a few steps from the desk and bowed slightly, just enough to acknowledge hierarchy without submitting to it.
"I wasn't feeling well," he replied.
Valttair observed him in silence for several seconds. Then, with a faint nod, he gestured toward the chair in front of the desk.
"Sit."
Trafalgar obeyed.
Once seated, the silence hung again, not awkward, but expectant.
Finally, Valttair spoke.
"How are you feeling now?"
The question wasn't warm, but it wasn't entirely cold either. His tone held no emotion—just obligation, or perhaps curiosity.
"Well enough."
Another pause.
Valttair leaned back slightly, folding his hands over a closed document.
"You were not meant to survive past infancy," he said without warning. "And yet, here you are. A boy without a name… now a Morgain."
Trafalgar said nothing.
"Your presence upsets many things. You are not of their blood, and yet you carry my name. Some of your siblings see you as a threat. Others as a tool. I see you as… potential."
He didn't elaborate.
Then his voice shifted, sharper, more purposeful.
"Your promised fiancée will arrive tomorrow. You will receive her with the decorum expected of this house."
Trafalgar blinked once, concealing his surprise.
"…Understood."
"You leave for the Academy in two days. Your arrival will be explained as a delayed transfer due to health complications. You will not speak otherwise."
"Understood," he repeated.
Valttair leaned forward now, eyes fixed on Trafalgar like a man reading a sealed letter and guessing its contents.
"Your life belongs to House Morgain. Make sure it has value."
He gestured toward the door.
"You may go."
Trafalgar stood, gave a final bow, and turned to leave.
Behind him, Valttair spoke one last time.
"Do not embarrass me."
The door closed.
'A bride? The Academy? I've been in this world for what—five damn minutes? What the fuck is going on.'
Trafalgar walked in silence, following the same maid through the winding corridors of the mansion. His steps were steady, but his mind was a storm of disbelief. No system, no guide, no idea what the hell this version of him had agreed to.
And now, apparently, a fiancée.
He didn't even know her name.
The maid halted briefly near a glass window overlooking a snowy courtyard. The silence stretched between them until she finally spoke without turning.
"Your engagement was arranged two years ago, young master. The lady arrives tomorrow morning."
Trafalgar's gaze shifted to her.
"You're allowed to say that, but not your own name?"
Her posture tensed slightly. "It was part of the official household announcement. I am not deviating from protocol."
'Right. Protocol… you fucking robot like girl.'
He nodded vaguely and resumed walking. The weight of the conversation with Valttair still hung over him. That man—calm, deliberate, dangerous in his restraint—had just dropped two bombs without blinking.
A bride.
And the Academy.
The second part made sense, at least. In the game, the Imperial Academy was the main setting. A melting pot of noble families, prodigies, and hidden monsters in human skin.
'That was the only info the game gave.'
But the bride?
That was new.
And unsettling.
He didn't remember any marriage subplot in the lore regarding Trafalgar du Morgain. Then again, the original game barely mentioned him beyond some tragic backstory and scattered event dialogue.
Whatever path he was walking now... it was completely unwritten.
As the maid led him down a broader corridor lined with chandeliers and arched glass, Trafalgar noticed a shift in the decor. The paintings became grander. The statues older. The carpet turned darker—deep navy with silver threads that shimmered like veins in the floor.
And then they passed it.
A massive oil painting framed in blackened gold, displayed like a relic at the center of the hall.
It showed a family portrait—ornate, lifelike, suffocating.
At the center sat Valtair du Morgain, expression cold and distant even in paint. To his left and right stood three women, each uniquely dressed in noble fashion. The wives.
Lady Serentha Valdren: tall and composed, with frost in her posture and calculation in her eyes.
Lady Irelia Voss: graceful, hands folded in prayer, her gaze protective but unfaltering.
Lady Nyxa Caerthas: powerful and sharp-jawed, armored even in the painting, with black tattoos curling down her throat.
And around them—seven siblings.
Trafalgar's gaze moved through them, recognizing the names from fragmented lore and memory.
Alveric — the heir. Muscular, posed with a blade. The only one standing directly behind Valttair, as if ready to inherit his throne.
Caelen — slight frame, holding a glowing tome. Eyes that hinted at something deeper, more dangerous.
Velina — beautiful, aloof, a mocking smile frozen in place. A master illusionist with too many secrets.
Thoren — straight-backed, dignified. A warrior with honor, but loyal to structure.
Luceris — eyes closed. Hands clasped. A prophet, perhaps. The only one not looking at the viewer.
Maeron — leaning forward, grin twisted, eyes alight with chaos.
Zaria —
He froze.
Zaria stood off to the side, but not in the background. Her presence in the portrait was commanding despite her relaxed pose. Bare-shouldered, wild dark hair flowing down her back, and golden rings on every finger. Her painted eyes looked straight at him.
And she was smiling.
Not politely.
Not kindly.
It was the same smile from those nights long ago—mocking, slow, predatory.
She was the one who abused him.
Trafalgar's breath hitched. His fingers curled into fists at his sides. The memory was faint, but the feeling it left behind was unmistakable.
He had inherited not only this body… but its wounds.