"I hope I can complete the ritual this time…" Bernadette sighed inwardly. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of a figure. She glanced away dismissively but froze.
Wait... that person!
Bernadette whipped her head toward the figure, but no familiar silhouette remained.
A mistake? But… She frowned. Though it was just a fleeting glance, she was certain the shadow bore an uncanny resemblance to someone.
Her father, Roselle.
The sudden sighting made her stand, her gaze fixed on the Kingdom Museum nearby. She wasn't sure what she'd seen... a lookalike, an illusion, or a trap.
As one of Roselle's primary heirs, Bernadette knew many coveted what she held. Even the Church of Steam and Machinery, despite a tacit understanding due to Roselle's connection to Bonova, might not resist targeting her.
After a moment's thought, she approached the museum and joined the crowd entering.
The guide was animatedly recounting Roselle's life, but for Bernadette, his daughter, it held no novelty. She knew more than the guide, having lived through many of those events.
Her eyes scanned the crowd, searching for the figure she'd glimpsed.
Then her gaze locked. This time, she saw him clearly... not just a fleeting shadow. The figure stood before an exhibit, his back to her. The angle hid his face, but the silhouette matched her memory of her father perfectly.
An illusion?
A trap?
Or… have you finally returned, Father?
In that moment, Bernadette felt a flicker of fear. She wanted to rush forward, call out, and see who this figure was, but her steps felt leaden, weighed down by dread.
She was afraid it was just a mirage, a lie.
As she hesitated, the figure moved toward a corner and vanished from her sight.
Bernadette froze, then, without further hesitation, hurried after him. But at the corner, the figure was gone.
A wave of crushing disappointment hit her. She bit her lip, forcing down the surge of emotions, and began rationally assessing the likelihood that it was Roselle.
Logically, it was unlikely. If it was her father, why hide from her?
Yet her intuition screamed it was him.
The tug-of-war between reason and emotion made her bite her lip again. Then, returning to the exhibit where the figure had lingered, she froze.
A note was stuck to the display case. Bernadette pulled it off, recognizing the handwriting instantly. It read:
"Roselle's clothing designs were fine, but you, little princess, deserve better. Don't let the past hold you back."
In an instant, the internal conflict vanished. Bernadette covered her mouth, her vision blurring.
She knew that handwriting... it was her father's.
She glanced at her outfit, not a modern style but a trend Roselle had sparked years ago.
It wasn't stubbornness against new fashion. Wearing these clothes felt like clinging to that era, when Roselle hadn't fallen, hadn't become a tyrant, and she was still his carefree eldest daughter, her biggest worry avoiding the Hidden Sage's lectures.
Bernadette ran toward the corner, scanning the crowd for that familiar figure.
But he was gone. Nowhere to be found.
She searched the entire Roselle Memorial Exhibition, finding no trace of him.
As despair set in, a breeze carried another note to her.
Without hesitation, she grabbed it. It read: "Look behind you."
Bernadette spun around, then froze. Her surroundings had changed. The museum's visitors were gone, and she was no longer inside the Kingdom Museum.
But that didn't matter. Behind her stood an ornate coffin, beside it a sign.
Her gaze fell on the sign, and her expression turned strange. It read: "Roselle lies here. Awaken him with the Fist of True Love."
"…Fist of True Love?" Bernadette muttered, unsure if this was a cruel joke. She knew the story of true love's kiss... Sleeping Beauty, cursed to sleep, awakened by it.
But the Fist of True Love? What was that?
She looked at her hand, slender yet strong, clearly capable of delivering a painful blow.
Glancing at the coffin, she approached, suspecting a prank but unable to resist. She placed her hand on the lid and pushed, discovering it slid open.
Her gaze fell inside, and her breath caught. There he was, unmistakable.
No fleeting glimpse or mere silhouette this time. Roselle Gustav, her father, lay in the coffin, dressed in an elaborate suit, looking regal.
Bernadette raised a trembling hand, her fingertips brushing his neck.
No warmth, no pulse. The Roselle before her was like a hyper-realistic mannequin or a corpse frozen in time, lying silently with no trace of life.