Just as the pressure in the office reached its apex, the doors flew open with a sharp hiss. A man strode in, alert and unshaken by the unnatural tension that seemed to choke the air.
"Lord Caelum," the voice rang out with a practiced steadiness, cutting through the heaviness like a blade.
Caelum's eyes snapped toward the voice. He exhaled—just once—and with that breath, the crushing pressure receded like a tide. The room seemed to exhale too, as if finally released from the grip of an unseen force.
The bookshelves settled, and the trembling Guardian collapsed to one knee, drenched in sweat but still conscious.
The man who had entered stood tall, clad in a sleek uniform with fine silver accents. His short dark hair was meticulously groomed, and a monocle-like device glinted over one eye—connected to a chrome data thread that fed directly into his neural link.
Edgard Vael, Caelum's personal aide and the estate's administrative chief, was a man of discipline, efficiency, and rare nerve.
He assessed the state of the office in a single glance. Then, with a short nod, he dismissed the half-fainted Guardian.
"You've done your duty. Get some rest," he said, his tone clipped but not unkind.
The Guardian didn't argue. He scrambled to his feet and exited with what little strength he had left.
"Execute recovery protocol—code silver. Restore to last stable preset."
With a quick voice command, Edgard restored the mild damages inside the office. The fallen books returned to their shelves, the chandelier stabilized, and the crack on the stained glass sealed itself with a thin shimmer of light.
Moments later, the room returned to its composed, dignified state.
Edgard turned back toward the desk. "My Lord… is something wrong?"
Caelum didn't answer. Instead, he pushed the glass notebook he had been writing on across the desk.
Edgard approached and took it with gloved fingers, his eyes scanning the contents. Several locations with coordinates were listed in the transparent pages.
"Re-investigation of the smuggling routes?" He asked, brows furrowing slightly.
Caelum nodded once. "These are the locations traced from the kidnappers' trail sixteen years ago. Now that we've confirmed which route they actually used, I want every site checked again. Especially the abandoned residences."
The Argyros military had executed their task within their scope. The rest had to be taken care of by those who could work in the shadows.
"They avoided teleportation to conceal chrome traces," Edgard deduced. He had some idea about the investigation as he had arranged for the military captain to move freely out of the Estate.
The details still eluded him as Caelum took several preventive measures against any leakage of information.
"They were careful. Too careful. That kind of precision needs support. A network. Leaders. We missed something back then—I can feel it."
Edgard straightened, now fully alert. "You want background checks?"
"Ownership history, past occupants, financial ties, land registry overlaps. Any link to syndicates or minor clans. Leave no stone unturned—even if the trail is cold."
"It will be done," Edgard said without hesitation.
He lingered for a moment, then hesitated before asking, "Will you be dining with the Young Lady again tonight?"
"I will," Caelum replied. "Same time."
One hour later…
Nadia had already returned to her room, again using the teleportation feature with her chrome phone and was now following behind her assigned maid toward the grand dining hall.
The estate's dining hall, like the rest of the main structure, was modeled after the classical grandeur of a European castle. Tall arched ceilings loomed above, adorned with frescoes that depicted both historic battles and celestial constellations rendered in metallic chrome threads that shimmered under the light.
Carved pillars lined the walls—each one unique, bearing a different mythical creature entwined in stone vines.
At the center stood a long, obsidian-lacquered table capable of seating over fifty guests, though only two places were ever set: one at each end. The chandeliers above flickered softly with floating flame orbs, casting a warm, flickering glow over polished silverware and crystal-cut goblets.
Nadia took her usual seat across from Caelum, who was already waiting, seated in silence. A formal line of staff brought in course after course, retreating once the dishes were laid. Their movements were silent, reverent.
It had been a week since these dinners began—quiet, ritualistic, and wordless.
Caelum, for his part, did not press conversation. His eyes never wandered from his daughter, drinking in her presence with a desperation he didn't voice. Every flicker of her expression, every motion of her hand, was watched with reverence and quiet sorrow—as if memorizing her anew each night.
Nadia, however, was far less moved.
She ate in silence, her posture stiff, her eyes barely lifting from the plate. In the beginning, she had fumbled with the utensils—uncertain of which fork or knife to use, unfamiliar with the sequence of courses.
But the system assisted her in real time, gently directing her through subtle visual prompts only she could see. Over the week, she had slowly adapted.
Her etiquette remained clumsy, her movements not quite elegant, but she no longer made a fool of herself.
That was enough for now.
Caelum, in truth, felt a flicker of pride. He couldn't care less whether she used the utensils properly—she could invent her own rules of etiquette and he would follow them without question.
But watching her settle into a relatively ordinary habit, and even show interest in improving it, filled him with an unbearable sense of satisfaction.
It also gave him the courage to take a step forward.
Despite the silence that had long become their evening routine, for the first time ever, Caelum braced himself and finally spoke, his voice low and hesitant.
"I heard you visited the library," he said.
The words hung awkwardly in the air. The same man whose commands could raze nations—whose presence bent seasoned warriors to their knees—now sounded unsure, almost timid.
Several of the servants at the edges of the hall glanced up in quiet astonishment, their carefully trained expressions momentarily slipping. None dared comment, of course. But it was not often—perhaps never—that their lord's voice faltered.
Nadia paused, her fork midway to her mouth, lobster risotto balanced delicately on the edge. She looked at Caelum, not startled but mildly curious. Then, without a word, she took the bite, chewed, and swallowed before responding.
"Yes."
Her tone was flat but not dismissive. Honest.
She hadn't expected him to bring it up—though she wasn't surprised he knew. Of course he did. She was being watched constantly.
She had already deduced that every hallway she walked, every room she entered, and every word she said was reported to him. The fact that he acknowledged it, however, was unexpected.
Across the table, Caelum felt the breath catch in his throat.
She replied.
He could not help but bring it up because he was concerned over the reason that had led her to the library. Even so, he was expecting to be ignored. And yet she answered.
A simple one-word response had no business making his chest feel lighter, but it did. Somewhere beneath the veneer of his stern, untouchable persona, a flicker of joy sparked to life—quiet and unassuming, but warm.
He almost asked how she knew about the library. Almost. But he stopped himself.
It didn't matter if she learned about it from the chrome phone he had sent a few days ago, or overheard it from a passing maid. Maybe she was simply exploring.
The map on the device would've led her there eventually. And he didn't want to prod too deeply—not if his earlier guesses were right and it meant dragging her back to memories better left buried.
So instead, he tried again, gently, carefully.
"How was it?" Caelum asked. Then, after a pause, "Did you… find anything interesting?"
A few seconds passed before Nadia glanced at him again, this time with a flicker of doubt in her eyes. Where was this going? Was this a lead-up to another restriction? A warning? There were already several restricted areas within the estate that she wasn't allowed to venture into.
But she answered anyway.
"It was pretty," she said simply.
Pretty.
The word was vague. Nondescript.
But to Caelum, it was priceless.
He couldn't have known about the surge of energy she'd absorbed, the raw chrome cores or the System that had changed her reality. She hadn't told anyone. Wouldn't. Not even him. Especially not him.
She couldn't afford to trust. Not yet.
And yet, as she looked at him—really looked at him—for the first time since she had arrived, Nadia found herself examining the man who sat before her not as a stranger, but as her father. He must have been a terribly attractive man in his prime.
Yet, now his once-sharp features bore the weight of time and sleepless nights—etched with fine lines of grief and guilt.
A man who had lost everything.
A man who had clawed at the edges of the world for sixteen years, scouring every shadow, every whisper, chasing rumors, legends, lies—until one finally led him to her.
She didn't hate him.
She didn't blame him.
But she didn't trust him either. Not with her truth. Not yet.
She was painfully aware that to achieve her vengeance, she would need him. Need his power, his reach, his knowledge. But not now. Not until she was ready. Until she was strong enough to stand beside him—not beneath him.
Across the table, Caelum didn't speak further. He simply observed her, a quiet contentment easing the usual hardness in his gaze.
In that quiet hall, under the soft glow of chrome-lit chandeliers, the distance between them remained vast.
But for the first time, a bridge had begun to form.