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Translated By Arcane Translations
Translator: FusionX
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The illusion wasn’t over yet.
… At least, I wanted Yuria to believe that but perhaps it was working too well.
Manipulating illusions was simple.
I twisted my mana, crafting a reality far more cruel than anything I had experienced.
I was certain she was reliving forgotten memories.
The Moonstone had clearly reached a singularity.
Yuria’s inner turmoil flowed into me, and I was astounded by her unwavering desire for the head position.
What did it mean to her?
I couldn’t comprehend it.
The title of head held no real meaning for me.
I almost wanted to applaud her for clinging to it, even after experiencing countless regressions and deaths within the illusion.
Of course, that made it all the easier to break her.
“…You’re the Duke?”
I nodded at Yuria’s disbelieving question.
The most effective way to shatter someone’s spirit was to crush their hope.
Even the strongest will faltered when faced with futility.
I knew this better than anyone.
It didn’t take long for Yuria’s eyes to lose their focus.
I had released her restraints a while ago, but she swayed, collapsing back into the chair.
I hadn’t officially inherited the head position yet.
It was a bluff, but the crest on my chest symbolized the seat of power, didn’t it?
I would use everything at my disposal.
If it helped me erase Yuria completely, I wouldn’t hesitate to push the boundaries.
“Indeed. You seem surprised.”
“Impossible… surely the nobles wouldn’t just stand by-”
“Which nobles are you referring to? Do you still believe anyone supports you?”
I had returned from the basement alone after Yuria and I entered together.
The nobles’ reaction was predictable.
Wouldn’t they assume I had become the head?
Even those who initially supported Yuria had rushed to pledge their allegiance to me.
Her power base had evaporated.
“There aren’t any. Every noble who once supported you has declared their support for me.”
I possessed the Northern seal, the divine power bestowed upon me by the Saint, and the artifact given to me by the Princess, a token only she and I shared.
I touched the Yugress crest beside the head’s crest and smiled.
Yuria’s foundation had crumbled.
The woman who always possessed an icy, calculating gaze was now visibly shaken.
Her eyes trembled, ready to shatter.
She laughed hysterically, stumbling and clutching her forehead.
“…You’re lying.”
“It’s the truth.”
“Someone like you… you could never be Duke. It was predetermined. I’m the one who’s supposed to be the head. Right? Isn’t that right, Robe- ugh!”
Renold, who had been standing beside her, suddenly pricked her hand with a needle.
Yuria winced in pain, glaring at Renold.
He calmly withdrew the needle and responded with a straight face.
“Address him as Duke. He’s no longer the Young Master. It’s best to show some respect.”
“What…?”
So he had chosen sides.
I stifled a laugh and watched as Yuria glared at Renold.
The anger in her eyes gradually faded.
She seemed to have found a perverse sense of certainty in his betrayal, her remaining emotions crumbling away as if something within her was breaking.
I had assumed she would be completely broken by the end of the illusion.
I was starting to understand why I couldn’t change her.
How could I possibly change a woman who lived with such a mindset?
She had lived with the unwavering conviction that she would become head.
Even after being treated like a prostitute and enduring countless tortures, she had always clung to her ambition.
While she had suffered mentally, her spirit hadn’t been entirely broken.
But now, even that seemed to be fading.
I wanted to witness her downfall with my own eyes, to ensure she could never recover, to erase the name Yuria Taylor from existence.
“Jay, Renold, leave us for a moment.”
“Are you sure?”
Arwen looked at me, concerned, but I smiled softly and nodded.
I wanted to finish this alone, just Yuria and me.
We had both experienced 100 deaths.
How would this cycle of death end? Would our ending be a comedy or a tragedy?
While I had a vague idea, one thing was certain.
Today was her end.
I watched the tragedy unfold, my eyes fixed on Yuria.
Looking at her now, I realized how completely our roles had reversed.
I used to be the one sitting in that chair, staring up at her.
Yuria’s eyes were vacant, a strange moan escaping her slightly parted lips.
But she didn’t seem to care, her face devoid of any reaction.
“I spent a lot of time in this room when I was young.”
After Mother died, Yuria had found my grief pathetic and tied me to this chair, ripping out my fingernails.
The pain was unbearable, and I had fainted.
Each time I regained consciousness, the torture resumed, until all my fingernails were gone.
But no one cared about my condition.
The person who looked after me had already been killed by Yuria.
I had believed he had simply retired, but learned later that she had murdered him.
The dead don’t return.
There was no one to comfort a 10-year-old child, and so my bond with this basement deepened.
“…Go ahead, rip out my fingernails. I don’t care.”
“I won’t.”
I wasn’t Yuria.
I didn’t want to be like her.
I had no desire to cling to the title of head, to live my life for a single moment, to become a moth drawn to a flame.
I wouldn’t kill or torture anyone, even my family, to achieve my goals.
While I couldn’t say I still considered her family, I refused to stoop to her level.
Yuria’s body was covered in wounds, scars from the torture I had endured in past regressions.
It seemed that, like Theresa, the memories had manifested as physical wounds.
They weren’t healing, slowly wearing down her body.
While they weren’t severe, those wounds would likely shorten her lifespan.
She wouldn’t live as long as she had hoped.
While I wished she would live a long life, the forced recollection of those memories through the illusion had taken a toll on her mental state.
Yuria sat in the chair, staring at me, blood trickling from her wounds, staining her white shirt crimson.
Perhaps she had resigned herself to her fate, accepting that it was over, that she could never recover.
The thought made me laugh.
There was no way Yuria would ever give up.
She was probably still searching for a way to exploit my weaknesses.
That was who she was.
The woman I hated, resented, and wanted to erase.
This was the true Yuria.
I was almost relieved that she hadn’t broken so easily.
I would have been disappointed if 100 deaths had been enough to crush her.
Could a woman who remained unchanged after 100 regressions truly be shattered by 100 deaths?
I chuckled softly and approached her.
“You’ve worked hard. I’ll never forget the lengths you went to in your pursuit of becoming the head of the Taylor family.”
“…Just kill me already. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”
“I never said I would kill you. Why are you so eager to die? I’m not as cruel as you. I prefer to save lives rather than take them, and I prefer to make use of what I have rather than discard it.”
She didn’t seem to have any intention of getting up, so I started tying her to the chair.
The ropes, imbued with my mana, bound her limbs, and after a brief struggle, Yuria glared at me.
I wouldn’t kill her.
That much was true.
“I’ll visit you every day from now on, so I hope you’ll listen to what I have to say and give me your honest reactions.”
I planned to tell her about everything I did after becoming head.
How I would lead the Taylors, use them to gather power, align myself with the Crown Prince, and become his closest confidante.
That was why I wouldn’t kill her.
She had to witness it all with her own eyes.
Wouldn’t it be more painful than an eternal illusion, to watch her most hated brother walk the path that should have been hers?
Could she withstand it?
I had one concern.
Would she break down and take her own life to escape the torment?
“Mmmf-!”
I sealed her mouth with magic, allowing only food to pass through.
I would release it later if she had something to say.
I bound her arms and legs, but left the door unlocked.
I wanted her to see the attendants going about their duties, to witness their newfound energy and wonder what she thought.
“Well, this is partly for my own satisfaction.”
She had to see everything Robert Taylor, the Duke, would do.
She had to watch as everything she built was used, discarded, and deemed useless.
After much deliberation, I decided this would be her greatest punishment.
To be trapped in that chair, forced to watch it all unfold.
I wanted her to witness the downfall of the Taylor family, the family she clung to so desperately, to crumble under the weight of treason.
What expression would she make?
Her wide eyes seemed to hold a thousand unspoken words, but I chuckled softly and leaned close to her ear.
“I hope you live a long and healthy life.”
Only then would everything be complete.
100.
The number of times she had died within the illusion.
Would this life be her 101st?
If her life were a story, I desired only one thing.
For her story to end in complete tragedy.
For her 101st bad ending to be the cruelest of all.
The light that once flickered in her blue eyes had vanished, replaced by a hollow, emotionless gaze that stared into the void.
A light that would never return.
The thought crossed my mind.
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