I splashed cold water onto my face, the chill stinging my skin. I'd always believed the tutorial was the easy part—the grace period. This world had shattered that illusion in minutes.
The novel had only briefly touched on the Crown Family's Assessment Ceremony. At age eight, every child is tested by an orb that reveals their rank based on their inherent skill. My pulse quickened. I had no idea how the original Amon's ceremony had gone. I was flying blind.
"I'm in a tight spot," I whispered, reaching for a towel.
I had to stand on a stool just to see myself in the bathroom mirror. I stared at the boy in the glass—Amon's face, now my own—and a thought drifted into my mind, a quote from one of my favourite characters back home.
"Some use their powers to achieve great success, while others fall into ruin because they cannot control them."
The realisation hit me. If [Sinner's Desire] was a one-way ticket to madness, then using it repeatedly was out of the question. But if I used it just once—to create a permanent, stable skill—I could make up for its uselessness.
"Thanks for the inspiration," I muttered, a small, sharp smile tugging at my lips. I knew exactly what I had to create.
I shoved the stool aside and stepped out of the bathroom, moving to the centre of the expansive bedroom. My heart hammered against my ribs, but my mind was unusually clear.
"Sinner's Desire," I whispered.
The air in the room instantly grew heavy, as if the atmosphere itself were bowing to the command. A faint, ethereal glow began to bleed from my skin, enveloping me in a soft, shimmering light.
. . .
"Where is my son?" Emilia's voice was calm, yet it carried an unmistakable weight that commanded the room.
"The Young Master is arriving shortly, Your Grace," the maid replied, her head bowed in a deep, practised show of respect. "He requested a moment in the washroom."
"I see," Emilia remarked, her gaze drifting toward the grand entrance of the hall.
Emilia Von Crown was more than just Amon's mother; she was a Grand Duchess of the Riversong Empire, a woman of unfathomable magical and martial prowess.
Her beauty was as sharp as her reputation. She possessed flowing, snow-white hair and brilliant cyan eyes that seemed to pierce through those she looked upon. She possessed a mature, sensual silhouette, accentuated by her attire.
Her attire was a blend of modern elegance and martial readiness: a crisp white shirt and dark jeans tucked into long black boot heels, all layered under a silver overcoat. Pinning her collar was a white, crown-shaped lapel, the silent, shimmering proof of her status as a Grand Duchess.
"Madam, I am humbled to be chosen to bless the Young Master," the priestess said, her voice thick with gratitude.
During the Assessment Ceremony, the Crowns traditionally summon priestesses from the Holy Empire to bestow 'Blessings' via Divine Magic. It is a volatile, dual-natured power—capable of both life-altering miracles and absolute devastation—and it remains the exclusive domain of the Holy Empire's people.
Their presence also serves a more pragmatic purpose: to ensure the assessment of a Crown heir remains untainted by any tampering.
The priestess, Kaya, was in her early twenties. She was tall, with short, choppy blonde hair that brushed her shoulders, shimmering blue eyes, and a soft, curved silhouette beneath her vestments. She wore a ceremonial white-and-gold habit accented with shimmering highlights, finished with polished white high-heeled boots.
"It is fine, Kaya," Emilia said, offering a rare smile. "If you wish to thank someone, thank the Head Priestess. She was the one who recommended you for this task."
Kaya beamed, her eyes wide with surprise. "I can't believe the Head Priestess deemed me competent enough... I will be forever in her debt."
Emilia couldn't suppress a small chuckle. The Holy Empire never failed to amuse her. While the common folk were devout, kind-hearted followers of Lunaism, the clergy of the Cathedral were the true curiosity. Despite wielding the influence of such a massive, powerful religion, they often possessed unexpectedly mild and earnest personalities.
"Matriarch," a voice cut through the air. Daphne Von Crown stood apart from the crowd, her presence cool and observant. Like her elder sister Emilia, she was a striking figure with flowing snow-white hair and brilliant cyan eyes.
She wore a sharp black shirt and trousers tucked into white high-heeled boots, draped in a matching white overcoat that signified her rank as a Marquess. "What will you do if Amon fails to be diagnosed with an inherent skill?"
"I will raise him as I have raised Sophia," Emilia replied casually. "But given Arnold's lineage and my own, it's unlikely he lacks one."
"I am speaking of the succession," Daphne pressed. "Would he still be permitted to join the Duel?"
Emilia looked thoughtful. "That depends on him. If he proves strong enough, he will take part—skill or no skill."
Daphne fell silent, satisfied with the answer. But before the conversation could settle, Kaya spoke up, her voice trembling with a strange realisation. "If I am not being insolent... I believe the Young Master possesses an incredibly powerful—"
A violent surge of magium suddenly tore through the hall. It was unlike anything they had ever felt—raw, jagged, and dangerously unstable.
"This magium... no." Emilia's face drained of colour. Without another word, she bolted toward the Drawing Hall exit, Daphne and Kaya racing to keep pace.
"Matriarch, what is it?" Daphne called out.
"Something has happened to Amon!" Emilia threw the words over her shoulder, her speed far outstripping the others.
They reached his door in under two minutes. Emilia didn't knock; she kicked the heavy wood inward with a deafening crack. The sight that greeted her was a scene from her worst nightmares.
"No..." Her legs gave out. She collapsed to her knees, paralysed by the horror before her.
Amon lay motionless on the floor, his small frame centred in a spreading pool of crimson. Kaya gasped, her hands flying to her mouth, but Daphne moved with the cold efficiency of a soldier. She knelt beside the boy, her fingers pressing firmly against his neck.
"He's alive, but his pulse is fading," Daphne reported, scooping Amon into her arms. She turned her icy gaze toward the priestess. "You can cast healing divine magic, can't you?"
"I-I... yes..." Kaya stammered, her eyes wide with shock.
"Then stop stuttering like a coward," Daphne snapped, her voice like a whip. "Heal my nephew. Now!"
. . .
The System lied. It warned me about the mental strain, sure, but it never mentioned my internal organs turning into a blender. And why was I in a high-ceilinged drawing room?
"Actually, I was the one who did the internal bleeding," a familiar, amused voice rang out.
Masha was sitting across from me, looking as elegant—and as smug—as ever. She leaned back on a plush sofa with her legs crossed, watching me with a sharp, entertained glint in her eyes.
"You know what? I'm not even going to ask how you're reading my thoughts," I sighed. I was too exhausted to fight the obvious.
"Good. I've always disliked people who question the obvious," she chuckled. The sound was melodic, contagious, and entirely infuriating.
"The reason I... intervened," she continued, her voice turning soothingly playful, "is because I forgot to mention a small detail. Your stream doesn't actually go live until you're eighteen."
You've got to be kidding me. She nearly killed me over a scheduling conflict? This woman is a complete psychopath.
"Aw, you're so mean!" Masha pouted, her voice thick with fake hurt. Then, her tone shifted, dropping into a low, honeyed tease. "I only gave you a little internal bleeding because I like you so much~"
"Can you please just send me back?" I asked, my face a mask of total indifference.
"Geez! You're probably the only man I've ever met who could be this cold to a goddess like me!" Masha pouted, crossing her arms in a mock huff. "Fine. Go back to your little drama."
She snapped her fingers.
The plush sofa, the elegant drawing room, and Masha's smug, beautiful face all began to dissolve into a kaleidoscope of static. My consciousness frayed at the edges, pulled back by the tether of a body that was—if Masha was telling the truth—currently bleeding out on a bedroom floor.
"An S-Rank Healing spell wouldn't have sufficed to save him," a woman's voice cut through the air, sharp and clinical.
I felt my consciousness drift back into my body. To my surprise, I felt light—better than ever, actually. The grinding pain in my chest and the metallic taste of blood were gone, replaced by a strange, humming vitality. I could feel the soft silk of my bedsheets against my back.
"But Marquess, what actually happened to Amon?" a man's voice asked, his tone thick with worry.
I blinked my eyes open. The room was crowded. Emilia sat at my bedside, her hand tightly gripping mine. Standing near the foot of the bed were the priestess, the woman who looked like Emilia's twin, and a man whose face tugged at a distant, half-remembered memory from the novel.
"Are you alright, Amon?" Emilia asked softly.
The cold, commanding Grand Duchess was gone; in her place was a mother whose eyes were red-rimmed with maternal terror. She squeezed my hand as if afraid I might vanish if she let go.
"I... I feel fine... Mother..." I managed to croak out.
My voice was thin and raspy. Even though I was feeling physically rejuvenated, the sheer trauma of the internal bleeding had left my spirit feeling like it had been dragged through a sieve.
"The... the Young Master has awakened an SS-Rank Special Skill," The Priestess stammered, her hands still trembling as she clutched her holy symbol. "When I channelled Divine Magic to knit his wounds... I felt it. I also confirmed that he possesses..."
She trailed off, her eyes darting toward the floor, seemingly terrified of the words she was about to utter.
"What does he possess, Priestess?" the man asked. His voice was a calm, steady anchor in the room, his composure offering her the assurance she needed to continue.
"He possesses an SS-Rank Inherent Skill," The Priestess whispered, the words hanging in the air like a death sentence. "If I had to deduce... he used that inherent skill to manifest the other skill. But the cost... the toll on such a small, undeveloped body was nearly fatal."
The silence in the room suddenly felt much heavier. I looked at the man standing near the priestess—his presence was steady, almost grounding. It finally clicked.
This was Arnold Von Crown.
In the original novel, Arnold was the paragon of a righteous man. As the Director of the Magic Administration Bureau, he held the keys to one of the most influential organisations in the Riversong Empire. He was brilliant, politically savvy, and above all, a man who lived for his family. He was a father who doted on his children and a husband whose devotion to Emilia was legendary.
Looking at him now, it felt like a cruel joke of fate. This kind, talented man—and the mother currently holding my hand—were destined to be murdered by their own daughter, Sophia. The very person they loved most would be the one to end their lives.
"Amon," Emilia's voice was low, the calm of a Grand Duchess struggling against the fraying nerves of a mother. "Why would you do it? Why risk your life to force a new skill into existence?"
"I... I didn't want to... to disappoint you, Mother," I whispered. Each word felt like a mountain, but I pushed through. "My inherent skill... it was dangerous. It would have made me go mad if I kept using it. So I used it once... to make something safe. Something useful."
I looked up at her, forcing a weak, fragile smile. "I just wanted you to be... proud of me."
The silence that followed was heavy. Emilia didn't answer with words. Instead, she pulled me into a fierce, trembling embrace, her hand rhythmically rubbing my back. She was silent, but I could feel the tension in her frame—the suppressed sob of a woman who had just realised her eight-year-old son had tried to trade his safety for her approval.
I feel like the scum of the earth, I thought, the guilt gnawing at me even as I buried my face in her shoulder. But there was no alternative. I couldn't tell her the truth—not about Masha, and certainly not about the novel. This lie was the only shield I had.
"Could you leave us for a moment?" Arnold's voice was gentle, but it carried the authority of a leader.
The Marquess gave a sharp, silent nod. Without a word, she grabbed the still-sobbing Priestess by the collar and began dragging her toward the door.
The poor priestess offered no resistance, sliding across the polished floor like a discarded shopping bag as the Marquess hauled her out.
It was a hilariously undignified sight, and despite the lingering trauma in my chest, I felt a ghost of a smirk tugging at my lips.