That night, the mansion—once filled with hollow laughter and the stench of hypocrisy—had fallen into a silence as cold as a marble tomb. Lucien slept in Julia's chamber, a room he had now claimed as his own. For the first time in three cursed years, he did not have to huddle upon cold stone. He sank into the softness of a goose-feather mattress, while his weary soul rested under the protection of a darkness he had conjured himself.
However, on the ground floor, the dim glow of magic lamps illuminated a macabre industriousness. Workers from the Main Estate moved like silent ghosts. They documented every inch of pooled blood, every fracture in the marble, and every corpse frozen in terror. They did not speak; they were the cleansers of hidden sins.
At the threshold of the entrance, Hans stood with a rigid, upright posture. Beside him, Eva appeared like a candle nearly blown out, trembling every time the night wind brushed her skin. Hans's expression was so dark that even the shadows surrounding him seemed hesitant to draw near.
"Tell me everything, Eva," Hans's voice sounded like the scraping of a blade against stone. "Leave nothing out."
With a fractured voice, Eva began to spill the rot that had taken root in this mansion. She recounted how Julia and the other servants viewed Lucien as unwanted filth. The monthly funds sent by the Main Estate for the Young Master's care never touched Lucien's hands. Instead, the gold flowed into silk gowns, extravagant jewelry, and the secret debauchery of servants who believed themselves to be the true masters of the estate.
"We... we manipulated the reports every month," Eva whispered, tears of dread streaming down her cheeks. "Every time you or the Grand Duke's envoys were scheduled to visit, we would redecorate a room on the third floor overnight. Young Master Lucien... he would be rendered unconscious with sleeping draughts, then laid there as if he lived in luxury. That is why you never saw him awake. That is why he does not know your face."
Hans clenched his fists until his knuckles turned white. A cold fury burned in his eyes. He felt a seething rage—not only because of this betrayal, but because he had been denied the chance to tear those servants apart with his own hands. Lucien had seized that right from him.
Yet, as he stared at the lingering traces of the Devil's Gate still haunting the air, his anger softened slightly. A cruel, pragmatic thought surfaced in his mind. This suffering... it was a catalyst.
"In only three years, he opened the Devil's Gate," Hans murmured to himself, ignoring Eva. "The trauma they inflicted actually accelerated the evolution of Vornhart blood. Perhaps... extreme agony is the key we have been searching for all along."
Hans considered proposing to the Grand Duke that the next generation of Vornharts undergo a similar 'trial'—living in hell so they might rise as devils sooner. To him, pain was a small price to pay for unparalleled power.
Hans left Eva without a word. He began to pace through the mansion, his instincts leading him to the place most avoided by all: the basement.
As he descended the stairs into the cellar, Hans felt a suffocating pressure. The air here smelled of rust, despair, and delayed death. His steps halted before a small cell. His eyes fixed upon a stone slab covered only by a single, tattered, filthy cloth. There were stains of dried blood—the blood of a child forced to grow up far too fast.
Hans surveyed the surroundings with a look of horror he rarely displayed. No wardrobe. No books. No toys. Even his pillow was merely a slab of rock, its surface slightly smoothed by the constant friction of Lucien's head each night.
Witnessing this, Hans silently retracted his earlier proposal. No, he thought. A normal child would go mad or lose all rationality living here. This place was not built to forge strength; it was built to shatter a soul.
Lucien was an anomaly. How could a boy who should be five years old possess the composure and soul of a grown man? Hans was suddenly jolted by a realization.
"Wait... five years old?" Hans muttered, his eyes widening. "He was born only three years ago. But that body... it is the body of a five-year-old child."
Hans felt the hair on his neck stand up. How could someone's biological growth leap so far in just three years? Was this also the influence of the Devil's Gate? Or did the Vornhart bloodline harbor secrets far more terrifying than anything recorded in the family history? Hans felt a desperate urge to examine every drop of blood in Lucien's veins.
Morning arrived with an unusual light in the mansion. The sun pierced through the large windows, attempting to banish the remnants of the previous night's darkness.
Hans returned from the Main Estate fully prepared. He did not come alone. Behind him, a line of new servants marched in a rhythmic, silent gait. They carried no visible weapons, yet their auras were razor-sharp. They were specialized combat servants who answered only to the direct command of the Grand Duke—humans who had discarded their morality for the sake of devotion.
When Lucien opened his eyes, he was no longer on a mattress. He found himself already inside a vast marble bathtub, surrounded by fragrant, warm steam.
"What is the meaning of this?!" Lucien jolted, attempting to rise and escape the touch of foreign hands trying to lather his body.
"Young Master, please remain still," a maid said in a flat yet firm voice. Her hands held Lucien's shoulders with a gentle but unshakable strength, pressing him back into the warm water.
For an entire hour, Lucien underwent a "torture" of luxury he had never imagined. He was scrubbed, bathed, and tended to as if he were the most precious jewel in the empire. Afterward, they dressed him in extravagant attire: a white shirt of the finest linen, a black vest embroidered with silver thread, and a small blood-red cloak that symbolized his status.
The room, too, had transformed. The feminine touch that once belonged to Julia had been completely erased, replaced by decorations of black, white, and brilliant red that felt both regal and menacing. Gold filigree in every corner of the room reaffirmed that this was the domain of a Vornhart.
Lucien felt entirely alienated from his clean body and clothes that did not itch. He was led to the dining hall on the second floor, where a massive oak table awaited him.
He sat alone at the end of the incredibly long table. Behind and around him, the new servants stood motionless like guardian statues. Lucien glanced at them suspiciously. Cold faces. They aren't lowly servants like yesterday, he thought.
Soon, the dishes began to be served. The table was laden with various foods—succulent roasted meats, fragrant thick soups, soft bread with butter, and exotic fruits he had never seen before. It was enough food to feed ten grown men, yet he sat there alone.
Lucien stared at the soft bread with hesitation. His memory was still anchored to the moldy, hard crusts he usually scavenged from the waste. How can I finish all of this? Is this a trap?
As Lucien wrestled with his dilemma, the dining hall doors opened. Hans entered with a calm stride, carrying a wooden tray in his right hand. Upon the tray lay a letter with a red wax seal bearing the Vornhart crest—the terrifying head of a horned devil.
"A letter from the Grand Duke, Young Master," Hans said, bowing respectfully.
Lucien's heart throbbed. The Grand Duke. My father. The man who had never once laid eyes on him, the man who let him rot beneath the earth. A mixture of nervousness and hatred coiled in his throat.
"Just leave it there," Lucien said, trying to keep his voice cold despite the turmoil in his heart. "I will examine it after I have finished my breakfast."
Hans bowed obediently. "Of course, Young Master. I shall wait outside."
Hans stepped back, leaving Lucien alone before the feast and a letter that might change his destiny forever. In that grand room, Lucien realized one thing: the old shackles had indeed been shattered, but a new, far larger set of chains might have just been placed upon him.