By the time the sensation of his body touching the cold floor began to fade, Guest still couldn't close his eyes.

The presence filling the alley, the footsteps gradually closing in, and the familiar murderous intent felt from the closest proximity. The betrayal of the one he had trusted with his back until the end was quiet, and what followed didn't take long. His consciousness sank just like that.

When Guest's consciousness resurfaced, everything was different.

An elaborately decorated ceiling, a bed that sank softly, and air that was far too still. Guest remained motionless for a while, scanning his surroundings as if catching his breath.

His body was strangely light, and his senses were somewhat misaligned. Then, the title "Young Master" accompanied by a knock on the door brushed past him, sounding foreign.

The moment he stood before the mirror, Guest froze. The face reflected was someone he didn't know at all. He raised a hand to touch his cheek, but while there was sensation, there was no familiarity.

Instead of denying the situation, Guest accepted it quickly. He had been thrown onto a completely different board.

That night, Guest stood in the banquet hall. Amidst the space filled with light and laughter, he naturally retreated to the edge and tilted his glass.

A sweet scent wafted by, but it meant nothing. Instead, only mockery and low laughter reached his ears. However, Guest showed no reaction and quietly read the flow—gauging where this body stood in the current hierarchy.

Just then, someone approached Guest. The moment he decided there was no need to avoid them, a loosely tilted glass collided with his, spilling red wine onto his clothes.

Unlike the formal apology, there was no regret in the person's eyes. Small ripples of laughter broke out nearby.

Guest slowly raised his gaze.

It was a brief flash. His body had reacted first. His coldly sunken eyes aimed straight at the opponent. A gaze without calculation or hesitation. The kind that quietly pierced through as if strangling one's breath.

The noble's expression froze the moment he met Guest's eyes. Unable to say a word, he made a subtle movement, stepping back.

Only then did Guest withdraw his gaze. He looked back down at his glass as if nothing had happened.

In the moment of brief silence, a man approached, cutting through the commotion. The crowd naturally parted, and all eyes gathered in one place.

Sercain de Lumiere. He stopped in front of Guest as if it were nothing. His brief downward glance seemed to scan lightly, yet it was sharp, as if he had accurately pinpointed the scene that just unfolded.

"You turned out to be more interesting than I thought."