Rosenthal Family

Her gaze lingered on him — no longer glassy, but sharp. Focused. And then he saw them clearly.

Those eyes.

They were more than a symbol of nobility.The Blood Eyes were the keystone of the Rosenthal family's terrifying supremacy.

Rumors whispered in dark taverns and sealed libraries spoke of their true origin — a forbidden magic wrought by the Founder of the Rosenthal House, an ancient sorcerer whose name had been erased from records, perhaps even deliberately forgotten by the family itself.

This was no simple mutation of mana or aesthetic charm. No — the Blood Eyes were designed, constructed through heinous ritual, sealed into the bloodline like a curse and a crown.

Their power?

To take the mana of those they kill.

The wielder of these eyes could absorb the essence of another, devouring their mana, consuming their strength to bolster their own. But it was more than theft. It was refinement. Perfection.

This was no ordinary enchantment.In the vast and merciless world of magic arts, even among the darkest and most profane rituals, the act of stealing mana—or making another's life force your own—was considered a taboo of the highest order. A feat so unnatural, it was thought impossible without divine intervention or soul-crushing sacrifice.

To absorb mana from another being was to violate the very laws of nature that kept one's essence intact. It wasn't merely siphoning energy — it was a spiritual devouring, a consumption of everything that made the victim whole. Most who attempted it using conventional dark magic would find themselves torn apart from within — their core overloaded, their soul fractured.

Yet the Rosenthal bloodline did not merely succeed in this — they perfected it.

The Blood Eyes bypassed the dangers, the rituals, the madness. With a gaze alone, they allowed the bearer to draw mana into themselves as easily as breathing — especially potent against kin, where the resonance of shared blood created a seamless conduit of theft and assimilation.

It was a terrifying brilliance. A cruel, beautiful evolution of power.A forbidden miracle masquerading as a family trait.

And if the slain shared Rosenthal blood, the effect was even more profound.

The resonance between kin allowed for deep inheritance — not only raw power, but fragments of memories, instincts, and even a glimpse into their sorceries could be passed down. In effect, the Blood Eyes turned family betrayal into power, making every death a step toward godhood.

This was the true reason the Rosenthals' killer or devoured each other.

The throne was forged not only from ambition but necessity.

To rule, one had to consume.

And so, the current generation followed suit.

Even now, Selvaria's father, Duke Valen Rosenthal, sat atop a mountain of corpses — brothers, sisters, even his own father— their mana fused into his veins, their power now his alone.

In truth, the Blood Eyes had long turned the Rosenthal estate into a crucible of predators, where only the strongest, the most cunning — or the most monstrous — survived.

And among them, Selvaria Rosenthal, the Crimson-Scarred Flower, bloomed with quiet, lethal elegance. Her eyes were not merely beautiful.

They were weapons.And she had yet to use them in full.

And now here I am in front of one of these demonic Rosenthals giving her breakfast.

She lay among the tangled sheets, her pale hair a silken cascade over her shoulders, lips slightly parted as if still caught between waking and sleep. Her expression was unreadable — half-lidded blood-red eyes glowing dimly, like dying embers beneath ash.

But those eyes met his the moment he entered.

And he stopped in place.

Her gaze wasn't sleepy. It was piercing intense in its stillness, like a sword raised but not yet swung. Her beauty, ethereal as it was, carried a natural silence that pressed down on the room. The kind of silence that made you forget to breathe.

She said nothing.

He offered a small bow, carefully placing the tray upon the side table, careful not to disturb her presence too much, as if any wrong movement might fracture the moment.

"Good morning, my lady," he said softly. "Forgive the delay."

Selvaria didn't reply. She simply watched him — the slight tilt of her head the only sign of interest. Her fingers, pale and delicate, brushed over the edge of her pillow. A slow, thoughtful movement.

She looked like a ghost of royalty — a dying moon in a sea of night, just barely tethered to the world.

He knew better than to ask if she slept well.

He already knew — the fragments of her horrible night still stuck into her eyes, like smoke. 

Selvaria sat up in bed, her silver-white hair coiling like a waterfall across her shoulder, touched by the bright morning light with an almost metallic glint. She said nothing. She followed him, her gaze unwavering, precise in its focus. There was no hostility, and no warmth; only the unsettling coolness that always made it impossible to discern what she was thinking.

He stepped close with the tray, careful and composed. The dishes were set on the tray with almost military precision, steam flickering upwards like lazy fingers.

"You didn't have to run," she said softly, her voice like glass — delicate, yet edged. 

"I would be remiss to have you wait, my lady," he said, bowing slightly. "You've surely waited enough through the night."

A small flicker crossed her face — a ripple of unRated feeling. Whether it was anguish, resentment, or simply weariness, he did not know, but she removed the tray from his hand and made.

He didn't need to test it again with the silver needle — not now. He'd already done that, earlier, before even entering her room. His fingers still bore a faint indentation from how tightly he'd gripped the little thing, heart pounding, watching for any sign of reaction on the metal's surface. There had been none.

Still, his eyes traced her every movement as she lifted the fork, cautious but elegant. Not because he suspected anything in the food — but because he couldn't help it.

If anything happened to her… he wasn't sure he'd survive it.

Not just because of the system. Not just because of the punishment etched into the mission screen like divine law.

But because for the first time since he arrived in this cruel, blood-soaked world…

He felt scared for his life.

The quiet clink of silverware was the only sound for a while. Selvaria ate slowly, methodically, as if she were dragging herself through the motions more out of necessity than hunger. When she set her fork down at last, she didn't speak — but she didn't need to.

Anwir stepped forward, wordlessly lifting the tray with practiced grace. His movements were fluid, devoid of hesitation, like water flowing around stone. Every motion carefully measured to neither rush her nor linger unnecessarily.

He walked over to the corner, setting the empty dishes onto a small serving table. With a soft rustle of his coat, he straightened once more, brushing a gloved hand against his uniform to smooth it. Then, facing her with that ever-respectful distance, he finally spoke.

'Now using the memories that he had inherited from the original Anwir, he remembered her whole today's schedule'

"Your bath is ready, my lady," he said, voice calm but with a thread of urgency woven in. "The water has been infused with nightshade blossoms and moon jasmine, as you requested. The temperature has been adjusted according to your usual preference."

She blinked once, a silent acknowledgment.

He continued, "After your bath and dressing, your morning lesson with Lady Marivelle will begin at the third chime. And following that…"

Her eyes flicked toward him, narrowing just slightly. He didn't flinch.

"…you're expected at the Duke's evening gathering."

A pause.

Of course she already knew. But hearing it spoken aloud gave the day weight — a chain clicking into place.

Selvaria leaned back slightly, her gaze drifting toward the window, where pale morning light bled through the drapes like the start of a reluctant dream.

"I see," she said softly, almost to herself.

He inclined his head. "I've laid out three options for your attire, as per your previous preferences. If you'd like something more… discreet for tonight, I'll prepare accordingly."

She didn't respond. But he could see the tension forming again at her temple — the tightening of her jaw, the veil lowering over her eyes.

The mask was going back on.

And the day had only just begun.