“The Mistress Wakes”

Anwir sat at the edge of the massive bed, a hand pressed to his chest.

He inhaled slowly. Deeply.

And then—

"Mana Manipulation."

The words rolled off his tongue like instinct, and instantly, something awakened.

It started from the center of his being—a slow, warm pulse, like water boiling from beneath frozen ice. It spread across his limbs, his fingertips, his spine. He could feel it—really feel it.

"Holy hell…"

A low chuckle escaped him. His heart pounded as the invisible current surged within. In his old world, mana had been code—pure fiction, just digits feeding a looped illusion.

Now?

Now it coursed through his body like blood with a purpose.

"So this… this is real."

He raised his hand, watching tiny strands of translucent violet mana flicker across his palm like lightning dancing on water. It moved with his will, bending gently to the direction of his thoughts.

Exhilaration. Terror. Wonder.

"A concept. Just a damn fantasy concept…" he whispered, breathless. "And yet here it is. My veins are glowing."

He spent minutes just breathing, gathering it, letting it pour and compress, twist and coil within his frame. The feeling was euphoric—raw power, and terrifying freedom.

Then he remembered.

The skill he just got.

Position Swap… the ace in the butler's deck the skill that made him the most powerful villain in future.

He stood up, shaky but focused. His eyes locked onto a wooden coat stand in the corner of the room. It was just heavy enough. Just awkward enough.

Perfect test subject.

"Designation."

The moment he spoke, the world pulsed twice.

Reality distorted. The space around him twisted like a rubber band pulled taut.

A circle of glowing blue glyphs formed under his feet and beneath the stand.

Then 

Dozens of arrows shot out.

Whoosh.

I stared at my feet and saw the arrows starting to shoot out.

After one of the arrows marked the coat, he said the other incantation needed for the talent.

"Transfer"

Designation locked… Calculating spatial inversion…

3... 2... 1.

Then—snap.

The displacement happened in an instant.

The stand vanished from its place, and in the same breath, Anwir reappeared there. The world spun as inertia smacked him like a collapsing wave.

"Gkh—!"

He dropped to one knee, panting heavily, sweat pouring down his temple.

"That… that was less a swap and more a soul getting thrown across reality like a sack of bricks."

The coat stand now stood where he had been. Unmoving. As if it had always belonged there.

"About five meters. Not bad for a first try."

His legs shook. The strain was immense—not just on his body, but on his mana pool. He glanced at the faint flickering of the status screen hovering at the edge of his vision.

A massive chunk had already been burned.

"Takes a damn toll. Of course it does." He laughed breathlessly, wiping his face with the back of his glove.

"No wonder it was considered broken by the team. If the player knew how to use this, they could bypass entire boss fights. It's an assassin's dream."

The body still ached. His mana buzzed in protest. But something inside him was glowing—almost alive.

"It's mine now."

Still catching his breath from the test of Position Swap, Anwir sat down again, wiping away the beads of sweat clinging to his brow. His body still hummed with the aftershock of mana use, the adrenaline slowly fading into a dull ache.

Just as he started considering trying out another skill, a rapid knock echoed from the heavy wooden door.

Knock knock knock—!

"Sir Anwir!" a hushed, frantic voice called. It was a maid—her tone laced with urgency, and a hint of absolute terror. "The Mistress is beginning to stir! You'd best hurry or...!"

Anwir blinked.

Ah, right. The young lady of the house.

" I'm… I'm dead! I'm so dead"

He sighed, pushing himself up with a groan. His legs still felt like overcooked noodles.

No time to be dramatic. If the system's mission wasn't warning enough, I'd rather not test what 'eternal torment' feels like this early in the morning.

With practiced, natural efficiency—clearly inherited from the real Anwir's muscle memory—he dressed neatly and walked out, heading toward the kitchen first.

He quickly retrieved the prepared breakfast tray for the Mistress: elegantly plated fruit, warm pastries, and freshly brewed herbal tea—exactly to her liking. He nodded at the staff, exchanging minimal words, his crimson eyes scanning the room with a touch of wariness.

As he stepped into the corridor, however, he halted. With a quiet glance around to ensure no one was watching, he reached into the inner lining of his coat and pulled out a small, silver needle.

Poison detection. The old-fashioned way.

He had "borrowed" the needle from a senior maid under the pretense of fixing a torn shirt—his excuse so dry and dismissive that the poor woman handed it over without question. But Anwir knew the truth:

If Selvaria dies, then I'm probably next. Or worse.

Carefully, he dipped the tip of the needle into the tea first. Nothing. Then the pastries. Still clean. Finally, a soft prick into the fruit's surface—just enough to test, not enough to leave marks.

He exhaled in relief. No color change. No strange reaction.

Clear. Good. I've seen too many betrayal flags in this kind of setting as he also added some of them himself, so he had to be extra careful.

Sliding the needle back into his sleeve, he adjusted the tray, composed himself, and made his way toward her chamber.

The oak door creaked as Anwir opened it, the polished knob cool against his palm. On the golden tray was a silver teapot, two delicate porcelain cups, and a range of warm morning treats—all suitable for the first meal of a lord. But the occupant of the room was no lord. 

Upon entering, the first thing the butler noticed was the silence. 

There was no chattering; no straw rustled, not even the sound of breath changing.

Only her presence.

Selvaria Rosenthal lay on her silken sheets like a statue carved from moonlight. Her body reclined slightly under a sea of black velvet and white lace, her hair like strands of silver woven across the pillows. Her crimson eyes, usually gleaming with sharp wit and disdain, were now looking blankly towards the ceiling—half-lidded, rimmed with red, and far away. She appeared disheveled. Vulnerable. And yet…

Timelessly beautiful.

Even in the delicate stillness of waking from a nightmare, it was impossible to ignore Selvaria's beauty. Above the ruffled opening to her night dress, her delicate collarbone was barely visible, and the shade of her identifiable silver hair glimmered like frost-threaded strands. A red ribbon still lingered around one finger, forgotten in slumber.

And her face…

Puffy around the eyes, pale from whatever dream had clawed at her mind, she gazed as though the world outside her mind was but an inconvenience.

Cold. Distant. Indifferent.

Yet somehow, Anwir felt his breath catch.

He gripped the tray for a moment longer before he placed it on a side table. He stepped forward, then another, slow and soundless like a blur in the morning light. 

"Mistress," he said lightly, but his word fell into the stillness unanswered. 

Not yet.

But, still, her eyes shifted to him, heavy with sleep and impossible to read as if wondering whether it mattered he was there at all. 

And still… even her emptiness was pure elegance like the first frost of winter — crisp, silent, and utterly mesmerizing.