Childhood Crush

Just as Fanmuir was about to leave, Helena firmly grabbed his hand and began leading him toward Orlando Browne and his companion. At the time, Orlando was chatting casually with Nelson Mason and Paul Orléans.

Though Orlando deeply despised the two infamous heirs, his sharp mind and polished social skills allowed him to hide his contempt behind a mask of courtesy. The two fools were completely oblivious to the disdain in Orlando's flattering words and, in their arrogance, began to regard him as a close confidant.

The appearance of Helena and Fanmuir reminded the two of their earlier humiliation, prompting them to make a quick and graceless retreat under the guise of excuses.

From the moment Helena first walked through the doors, Orlando Browne's eyes had been on her. Her extraordinary beauty captivated him instantly. As for the man standing beside her, Orlando had dismissed him at first glance.

Orlando had been eager to approach Helena from the start, but the two sycophantic heirs had prevented him from doing so. Now, as she approached, his eyes gleamed with admiration. Even the cold, calculating man standing next to him couldn't help but cast a fiery, desirous gaze in Helena's direction.

A woman this stunning, thought Orlando, couldn't possibly be with a man as plain as him. Only someone like me is worthy of her.

Orlando, with his sharp instincts for social maneuvering, wasted no time. Before Helena and Fanmuir even reached him, he was already stepping forward, a warm smile on his face and a glass of champagne in hand. "You look so familiar," he said to Helena, his voice dripping with charm. "Have we met before?"

As for Fanmuir, whose gentle, bookish demeanor radiated quiet elegance, Orlando didn't bother to acknowledge him at all.

This dismissal wasn't unexpected. Orlando, a man gifted in martial arts, had spent years under the tutelage of a legendary master, advancing to the rank of Sky Warrior. With such a pedigree, he naturally regarded Fanmuir as nothing more than a shallow, well-off young man who posed no threat.

Orlando had already decided that Helena would be his. Why waste time on someone so insignificant?

Meanwhile, Orlando's companion, a powerful Divine Warrior with a cold and sinister aura, didn't spare Fanmuir a second glance. His expression remained icy and calculating, but his eyes betrayed his carnal interest in Helena as they followed her every move.

Orlando's blatant disregard for him was nothing new to Fanmuir. After all, he had deliberately chosen to blend into the secular world as an ordinary man. But this time, something felt different. Orlando and his companion didn't just ignore him—they dismissed him completely, redirecting their attention to Helena with shameless flattery.

For someone like Fanmuir, who stood at the pinnacle of existence, such trivialities should have been beneath him. And yet, an unfamiliar and uncontrollable anger simmered within. He couldn't understand why he cared so much about what these men thought or why he felt such indignation on behalf of the woman by his side.

What made it worse was seeing Helena's reaction. Her face lit up with delight as she responded to Orlando Browne's tired, predictable flirtation. The sight was like a dagger to Fanmuir's heart, tearing through him with unbearable pain.

Even so, Fanmuir found himself unable to disrupt her joy. This was, after all, the first woman he had met in this world—his first encounter with beauty here—and if this moment made her happy, who was he to take it away?

For his part, Orlando was taken aback. Was this radiant beauty truly one of his admirers? What an extraordinary coincidence, he thought. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't recall anyone like her from his past.

Of course, someone as polished as Orlando wouldn't let this slight awkwardness show. He maintained his warm smile, though a faint trace of hesitation slipped through.

"It's been so long that I can't quite place you. Would you mind reminding me who you are?" Orlando said smoothly.

"Orlando, it's me, Helena! I used to follow you around all the time when we were kids!"

Helena's voice was filled with an innocent enthusiasm, completely oblivious to Orlando's fleeting awkwardness.

"You're Helena Beaupeau? That little troublemaker?" Orlando repeated in surprise, finally placing her in his memory.

He had never imagined that the mischievous little girl with pigtails could grow into such an elegant and stunning young woman. Truly, the years had been kind to her.

"Yes, that's me!" Helena said, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment.

Hearing Orlando call her a "little troublemaker" brought back a rush of childhood memories, but it also made her feel a bit self-conscious. After all, who wouldn't be mortified to have their childhood antics brought up in front of so many people?

Fanmuir stood silently, watching everything unfold. A wave of bitterness consumed him, spreading through his entire being. Yet, he clenched his emotions tightly, refusing to let his inner turmoil show.

Men from noble families were often masters of charm, and Orlando Browne was no exception. As a rising star among the younger generation, he quickly recovered from his earlier misstep. His sharp eyes shifted to Fanmuir, his lips curling into a polished but insincere smile. However, beneath that smile lay an unmistakable condescension—a disdain that only Fanmuir could perceive. Helena, oblivious to this subtle hostility, remained caught up in her excitement, completely unaware of the undercurrents in Orlando's demeanor.

"Orlando Browne, of the Browne family in Britain. And you are?" Orlando asked, his tone brimming with pride as he extended a hand. His gaze held a natural arrogance, as though few in his peer group could earn his respect. To him, Fanmuir was a nobody, not worth even the courtesy of an introduction. The only reason he feigned interest now was because of Helena's presence.

"He's Fanmuir, my university classmate!" Helena interjected quickly, as if afraid Orlando might misunderstand their relationship.

The words stabbed at Fanmuir's heart. He understood her reasoning—she didn't want him to accidentally reveal anything inappropriate—but that didn't make it hurt any less. After a thousand years of solitude, this was his first taste of rejection, and it was excruciating.

Helena was more than just his first encounter in this world. Though their time together had been brief, she had already carved out a special place in his heart. Now, to be dismissed so easily, treated as a disposable pawn, left him grappling with a pain he had never known.

But Fanmuir was nothing if not compassionate. Even as his heart shattered, he forced himself to smile. He reached out to shake Orlando's hand, his grip steady but devoid of warmth. Turning to Helena, he said lightly, "You've reunited with an old friend. I won't intrude. I'll take a walk around."

Before Helena could respond, Fanmuir turned and walked away toward the balcony, his figure carrying an unmistakable air of loneliness.

Helena watched him go, the sight of his retreating silhouette tugging at something deep within her. His parting words, tinged with sorrow, struck a chord she couldn't quite explain. The thrill she had felt just moments ago at seeing Orlando seemed to dim in his absence.

Orlando Browne didn't miss the change in Helena's expression. Realizing that Fanmuir might hold a greater place in her heart than he initially thought, Orlando's gaze hardened. A dark glint of jealousy and hostility flashed in his eyes as he watched Fanmuir leave.

Fanmuir, of course, felt the surge of murderous intent from Orlando almost instantly. It didn't faze him—someone like Orlando could never harm him. But Fanmuir wasn't worried about himself; his concern was for Helena.

From the moment he met Orlando and his sinister companion, Fanmuir had sensed something was off. The two men radiated a malevolent aura that set his instincts on edge. When he shook Orlando's hand, even without probing deeply, his vampiric senses picked up the bloodlust and sinister energy emanating from them.

As Fanmuir walked toward the balcony, Helena's earlier expression resurfaced in his mind—the joy and bashful affection she showed upon seeing Orlando Browne. He gave a wry smile, mocking himself: "They're clearly a perfect match, and I'm just a bystander. Why get involved in something that doesn't concern me?" With this thought, he quickened his pace, eager to escape the stifling atmosphere of the hall.

Suddenly, the lights dimmed, and the sound of a birthday song filled the room. A towering, seven-tiered cake, glowing with soft candlelight, was pushed into the hall on a cart. The crowd instinctively parted, creating a clear path for the cake to pass through.

At the center of the hall stood Thomas Orléans, the evening's guest of honor. Once a commanding figure in Europe's underworld and business circles for over seventy years, he now appeared with a radiant smile, his face glowing with vitality. Guests raised their glasses in unison, offering warm congratulations to this martial arts legend.

But Fanmuir barely spared the scene a glance. To him, Thomas Orléans wasn't even worth noticing. A man like Orléans could never command the respect of the Héxūwéier family patriarch, nor could he stand on equal footing with the master of the Alexander lineage.

All eyes in the hall remained focused on Thomas Orléans, the undisputed center of attention for the evening.