Three years had passed since Anastasia’s reincarnation. She stood by the window, watching Paul train outside, contempting her pn. Today was the day—she had to start sword training.

  She gnced at her father, then at the closed door. One chance. It had to work.

  "Papa! Swish swish!" she excimed, waving her arms in an exaggerated motion. She kept her words as childish as possible. If she said something like, "Father, I wish to partake in the path of the bde," it would be too advanced and suspicious. Instead, she mimicked a sword swing, hoping Paul—despite his thick skull—would understand.

  Paul noticed her watching and, misunderstanding her gaze, struck a dramatic pose. He thought she was amazed by his swordpy. Anastasia bnkly stared at him for a moment before quickly seizing the opportunity.

  "Papa, me want to!" she said, bouncing in pce excitedly.

  Paul paused, rubbing his chin in thought. With Zenith out grocery shopping, there was no one to immediately stop him. It’s not like she can even lift the sword, he reasoned.

  "You want to be like Papa?" he asked.

  Anastasia nodded eagerly.

  Thinking it was harmless fun, Paul handed her a training sword. She won’t even be able to lift it, he thought.

  Oh, how wrong he was.

  Anastasia took the sword, her tiny arms wobbling slightly, and then—despite some clumsiness—she began to imitate Paul’s practice swings.

  Paul blinked. That’s… surprising.

  "PAUL!"

  Zenith’s furious voice cut through the moment like a bde. Paul flinched as his wife stormed toward them. Caught off guard, Anastasia lost her bance and nded unceremoniously on the ground.

  Zenith rushed to her side, her hands frantically checking for injuries. “Are you okay, sweetie?” she asked, her voice filled with concern.

  Paul awkwardly rubbed the back of his head. “She’ll be fine. She’s like me, after all.”

  Zenith shot him a menacing gre that promised pain.

  Anastasia, seizing the moment, went for the kill. “Mama, I want to be like Papa!” she decred.

  She forced herself to suppress the nausea rising in her throat. The idea of idolizing Paul—a crude swordsman and a womanizer—was horrifying. But sacrifices had to be made.

  Zenith frowned. “Anastasia, you’re too young for such things… wouldn’t you rather learn something amazing? Magic! It’s far better than swordsmanship,” she coaxed.

  Magic? Anastasia’s stomach churned at the thought. As someone who had already reached the pinnacle of magic in her past life, the idea of starting over from the basics again felt insulting.

  She had one option left—manipution.

  Pouting, she widened her eyes, letting unshed tears glisten. "But... I want to! I want to! I want to!" She threw a tantrum, wailing dramatically.

  If her former secretary were here, they’d probably throw her out for being so immature. But hey, no one could judge this Anastasia.

  Paul, eyes teary, clutched his chest. “Finally… someone actually wants to be like me…” he whispered in awe.

  Anastasia felt a deep sense of regret. If only she could dunk herself into cold water and erase the memory of uttering such humiliating words.

  Zenith sighed in defeat. “We’ll talk about this when you’re a bit older,” she relented before scooping Anastasia into her arms and carrying her inside. Meanwhile, Paul stood off to the side, completely forgotten.

  Anastasia y under the warm sunlight, eyes half-lidded in rexation. Her twin brother, Rudeus, lingered near the doorway, hesitating.

  He yearned for the outside, yet something held him back. Some deep-rooted trauma, something that made the mere thought of stepping past the threshold terrifying.

  Anastasia found his internal struggle amusing. Watching an adult man—reincarnated, just like her—cower like a child at something as mundane as going outside? It was pathetic.

  Her amusement grew the longer he hesitated. Humming softly, she closed her green eyes, basking in the sun’s warmth. The golden glow of her hair reflected the light, creating a striking image—one that silently decred her growth and future potential.

  The gap between them did not close over time. If anything, it widened. Anastasia had no desire to reach out to someone so weak-willed. Imagine being a grown adult and still crippled by your past trauma, she thought. It was ughable.

  She wouldn’t openly express her disdain—she wasn’t that cruel—but neither would she extend a helping hand.

  Rudeus grit his teeth, frustrated by her silent judgment. He needed to prove himself—to show that he wasn’t weak.

  He stormed back inside, retreating to his room. He had smuggled a magic book in there, and tonight, he would read it. He’d show her. He’d show everyone. Even if she could wield a sword, he would surpass her in magic.

  But before he left, he stole one st gnce at Anastasia, who remained peacefully asleep under the sunlight.

  Lilia entered the room, finding Anastasia asleep near the window. Smiling softly, she carefully picked her up, cradling the child in her arms. She considered checking on Rudeus, but if she moved too much, Anastasia would wake up.

  Besides, knowing Rudeus, he was likely holed up in his room doing something weird again.

  Lilia’s gaze lingered on Anastasia’s serene face. She’s growing up beautifully, she thought. But beauty wasn’t always a blessing. With her striking golden hair and noble-like presence, it was only a matter of time before someone from the Latreia or Greyrat families took notice.

  Paul and Zenith knew this, which was why they hesitated to let Anastasia outside too often. They feared losing her.

  But at the same time, Rudeus also refused to step outside. The boy would tremble and shake when urged, paralyzed by fear. It gave both parents headaches.

  Lilia worried that if this continued, Anastasia would become a caged bird, trapped by the very people who wanted to protect her. She had opposed the decision to keep her inside for too long, but ultimately, she had no say in the matter.

  She simply hoped Anastasia’s future would be as bright as she was.

  And, perhaps, that she wouldn’t make the same foolish mistakes Lilia herself had made in the past.

  In the depths of her subconscious, Anastasia found herself standing between two ghostly figures.

  One was Velvyr, the Inferno Knight—her persona of vengeance.

  The other was Wistoria, the Maiden of Frost—a lingering memory of loss.

  These were more than just personas. They were fragments of her past lives, preserved through her unique magic—Avatarice. A magic that allowed her to solidify memories into tangible forms, much like selecting a "character" in a game.

  But for now, she ignored Wistoria.

  Right now, her path was swordsmanship.