Lady Nozomi, ever the merciful executioner, helped me to my feet with all the tenderness of someone lifting a particularly disappointing cabbage.
She leaned down, lips near my ear.
"Aren't you glad," she whispered, "that no one was here to witness your brilliant fall?"
I responded with the most mature act I could muster: I ignored her.
With the regal bearing of someone who had absolutely not just faceplanted in the hall like a dropped dumpling, I cleared my throat, straightened my sash (which tried to strangle me again, briefly), and marched toward the ceremonial dais—an elevated platform beneath a massive arcane sigil, where all official disciple inaugurations took place.
Or, rather, should have taken place.
Because it was empty.
Utterly.
Tragically.
Suspiciously empty.
My brows furrowed.
No Master.
No robes of terror swishing ominously in the shadows.
No hovering teacup glinting with judgment.
Not even the faint threatening hum of an ancient fan being opened too calmly.
I blinked. Once. Twice.
Then I immediately began the Official Hyun Protocol for Locating Someone Who Might Be Sneaking Up on You:
Step one: Spin in a slow circle, squinting suspiciously at every decorative column like it might contain a trapdoor.
Step two: Drop to the floor, army-crawl beneath the platform, muttering "She's hiding. I know she's hiding."
Step three: Climb onto one of the chairs, pretend to be taller, and shout, "Master?! Are you invisible again?! I can sense your murderous intent! That's cheating!"
Nothing.
Not even a psychic fan slap.
Then—a horrible thought struck me.
My eyes widened.
My breath caught.
A single bead of sweat traced a dramatic path down my temple.
"Wait… what if…"
I gasped.
"Master was… kidnapped?!"
Lightning cracked in the theater of my imagination.
—Scene One: Master bound to a chair, sipping poisoned tea with absolute calm as kidnappers weep from the force of her glare.
—Scene Two: Master standing in chains, eyes glowing with eldritch fury, reciting the entirety of House of Aum's poison catalog while her captors regret every decision they've made since birth.
—Scene Thr—SLAP.
"OW!"
Lady Nozomi's hand landed firmly on the back of my head—not gentle, but not fatal.
She leaned in, her expression the same one you'd wear while scraping gum off your shoe.
"How dare a midget like you," she hissed, "dare to look down on Master?"
"I wasn't—!"
"You imagined her kidnapped," she said with venomous calm. "You think anyone could subdue Master? Do you even know her poison quota per day?"
"…She has a quota?"
"She's exempt from mortal statistics," Lady Nozomi said coldly. "Now sit down and stop embarrassing the House."
I sat.
Not because she told me to.
But because if I stood any longer, I'd probably trip on my robes again.
The hall fell into a breathless hush; a lone rune flickered, casting a cold blue blink across the marble.Then the grand doors burst open, rattling the chandeliers.
And there she was.
Master strode in like the opening act of a high-fashion apocalypse—robes billowing, hair perfectly tousled by a nonexistent breeze, eyes gleaming with the casual menace of someone who didn't need to try to be terrifying. She walked with the elegance of a runway model and the authority of a deity who charged late fees.
She stopped before us with a casual flick of her fan.
"You must have been waiting a long time."
"Ye—"
Before I could finish, Lady Nozomi calmly slapped a hand over my mouth and nose, sealing both with terrifying precision. I immediately began flailing, limbs flapping like a startled fish as I struggled for air.
She did not budge.
"We've only just arrived, Master," she said smoothly.
Master gave a nod. "Good. Then let the ceremony begin."
With a single clap of her hands, a line of House attendants rushed in from the side corridors, moving like a trained army under invisible command. They carried boxes, scrolls, trinkets, and—
'Wait.'
My eyes narrowed.
I peeked around Lady Nozomi's arm.
'Those are my things.'
My books. My cursed lamp. The mismatched tea set. That weird stone that glowed whenever I sneezed. The pillow with the tear stain I definitely didn't cry into. My favorite oversized coat. My chipped mirror. My not-quite-legal dagger collection. My snack stash. My emergency snack stash. A bottle of suspiciously vibrating ink. The wooden comb I'd lost for three months.
'All of it.'
Paraded in like offerings to a very confused altar.
Baffled, I turned to Master.
"Master? Why are my things here?"
"For the ceremony. What else?"
"What? How are they even—" I huffed, exasperated.
Lady Nozomi's hand gripped my shoulder like a steel vice.
"Don't question," she said through her teeth, her smile colder than a snow-covered grave. "Only listen. Understand?"
Her fingers dug deeper.
Any tighter and I'd need a shoulder transplant.
I nodded—rapidly.
She loosened her grip, just barely.
Then, with a careless wave of Master's hand, the House attendants threw all my belongings into the air.
They were up in the air for one glorious second.
Suspended like the dreams of someone who still believed in gentle mornings and functional furniture.
Then gravity, cruel and ever loyal, reminded us all of its existence.
CRASH.
My belongings plummeted.
Boxes split. Scrolls scattered. Teacups shattered with pitiful clinks. The vibrating ink bottle hit the floor and began humming a minor key.
I collapsed to my knees, clutching my chest as if the impact had struck me directly.
"My…" I whispered hoarsely. "My… my…"
One trembling hand reached toward the wreckage—toward the debris of my life—fingers outstretched in futility.
But heartbreak weighed me down.
I couldn't move.
I could only watch as the broken pieces of my identity lay still and silent on the marble floor, like fallen comrades in a battle I hadn't agreed to fight.
A single tear welled in the corner of my eye.
It didn't fall.
It lingered—like hope.
"I weep… for the injured," I murmured.
And yet, Master showed no remorse.
With the same tone one might use to announce a tax audit, she declared, "Regrettably, Hyun Nali shall officially be my disciple. The ceremony has concluded. Thank you for your hard work."
'Regrettably?!'
'That's it?!'
'No chants? No sacred vows? No dramatic lightning bolts or blood-oath rituals?'
'Just property damage and a lukewarm announcement?!'
My mind spiraled, my heart crumbling into glittering ruins.
'I had thought today would be a day of divine recognition—a grand, cosmic rebirth.'
'But no.'
'It was just another ordinary runt of a day in the House of Aum.'
'If my heart could cry, it would have flooded the Grand Hall and taken all of us down with it.'
Instead, I let out a single, mournful sigh.
"…What a hard life."
And somewhere in the wreckage, my snack stash let out a sad crack as a jar of ghost peanuts rolled gently to a stop.
I slumped in the far corner, colorless as stale flour.
"Why am I even here…?" I croaked at the marble floor, demanding an apology it would never give.
From the edge of my vision I caught Lady Nozomi's profile—her lips tilted in the faintest, most infuriating smirk.
'She knew.'
This whole "ceremony" had been a perfectly choreographed tragedy, designed to demolish my humble treasures and replace them with absurdly expensive knick‑knacks I'd never asked for.
I narrowed my eyes, channeling every wounded soul in history. "I will never forgive you," I hissed, too drained for volume but rich in venom.
Using the last bit of my energy, I commanded the House attendants— in a tone that brooked no argument— to haul my battered belongings back to my room.
Minutes later I sat cross‑legged on the floor, surrounded by wreckage: cracked teacups, dented boxes, a deflated pillow, scrolls that now resembled paper confetti. Armed with tape, glue, and what remained of my dignity, I began emergency repairs.
A chipped plate? Tape.
A ripped cloak? Glue.
The vibrating ink bottle? …I wrapped it in a prayer.
The door slid open.
Lady Nozomi stepped in, and the look on her face suggested she'd walked in on a small, intimate horror show.
"What are you doing?!" she exclaimed, eyes wide.
I didn't even glance up. "What else? Fixing my things. The things you helped destroy."
"It was ceremonial," she retorted, as if that justified the carnage.
"Try a better lie," I muttered, applying a generous line of adhesive to a porcelain shard.
A flush crept up Lady Nozomi's cheeks—half embarrassment, half indignation. I raised two dramatic thumbs‑down in her direction.
She exhaled, composing herself. "I'm not here to bicker with you like a child. Master sent me to deliver a message."
I froze, mid‑tape. "If she wants more pill‑pounding or potion‑brewing, tell her my heart can't handle another pounding today."
Lady Nozomi rolled her eyes so hard I nearly heard them click. "Master wants you to come to her chambers. Now."
"Why?"
She folded her arms. "Go there and find out. Must I narrate every step of your existence?"
I opened my mouth to fire back—then shut it with a sigh. My glue‑smudged fingers trembled between defiance and exhaustion.
"Fine," I said, scraping dried adhesive from my sleeve. "But if I return and find my belongings 'ceremonially' incinerated, I will haunt this House in poetically tragic fashion."
Lady Nozomi's only reply was an arched brow that translated roughly to try me.
Reluctantly, I rose, brushed dust from my robes, and headed for Master's chambers—leaving behind a battlefield of half‑mended memories and a silent vow to avenge every cracked teacup.