The Assessment
I closed the diary and stood, my legs unsteady beneath me. The bed felt wrong now—too soft, too peaceful for what I'd just absorbed.
I walked to the study table by the window and sat down. The wood was cool under my palms, solid and real. The moonlight fell across the surface, illuminating the small writing space where Eledy had probably sat countless times before.
I gently placed the diary on the desk, collecting my thoughts.
I know who my enemy is.
My fingers drummed against the desk, restless, anxious.
At least he is one of them.
Duke Castor is the centre of everything. Every entry from the diary traces back to him—directly or through his network.
His daughter Kiera leading the social exclusion. His "concerned" offers that are really threats. His public questions that plant doubt in everyone's minds.
Every attack, every humiliation, every social isolation—he started it. Set the tone. Led the charge.
And the other nobles followed like obedient dogs who knew better than to go against a Duke, who saw opportunity in House Rovaan's fall and wanted to be on the winning side when the dust settled.
He is targeting us deliberately. This isn't random noble cruelty born from natural prejudice against a common-born Count. It's orchestrated. Planned. Executed with precision.
He wants House Rovaan destroyed.
He'd been doing this systematically. Since Eleanor's funeral. For over two years now. Slowly, methodically, tightening the noose around House Rovaan's neck while smiling and offering "assistance" and pretending to be concerned.
The question is why.
Is it just resentment over Eleanor marrying beneath her station? Anger that an Imperial Princess "wasted" herself on a commoner when she could have elevated a Duke's house instead?
Or is there something more? Something about the territories? The trade routes? Some old grudge against Father from their military days? A threat House Rovaan poses that I can't see yet?
The leather of the diary felt warm under my palm. I'd been wracking my brain for answers, sitting so long my legs had gone numb. My head started to throb. But I can't stop now, not after I came this far.
The diary gives me the pattern. The method. The systematic destruction. But not his full motive. Not his endgame. Not the why that would explain two years of dedicated effort to ruin a relatively minor Count's house.
When I'd first transmigrated at seventeen, I'd been dropped into a villainess's body with a villainess's reputation, inheriting crimes I didn't commit and consequences I didn't understand.
I'd spent five years—well, three years as a fallen noble, two years as a slave—just trying to survive.
Just trying to prove I wasn't the monster everyone said I was.
I never read her diary. Never tried to understand who Eledy really was, what shaped her, why she became the villainess everyone hated.
I just woke up in her body, saw the consequences already in motion, and spent every moment after that trying to run from them.
Trying to clear my name. Prove I wasn't the monster they said I was. Distance myself from the crimes she'd committed.
And when Father fell—when the accusations came, when the evidence appeared, when House Rovaan collapsed under the weight of embezzlement and treason charges—I accepted that too.
He must have done it. The proof is there. We're the villains in this story. Villains always lose.
But did Father really commit them?
The thought hit me like a physical blow. The room felt suddenly colder, stealing the breath from my lungs.
Or is Duke Castor the one behind that too?
I didn't do anything after I came. I'd been living as Eledy for three years, trying desperately to rehabilitate my reputation, to distance myself from the villainess's actions.
But it didn't matter. The accusations came anyway. The evidence appeared anyway. Father fell anyway. Either this world creates tragedy automatically to fulfill the story I wrote, or someone is fabricating it.
My hands gripped the desk edge so hard my knuckles turned white.
Duke Castor is the one who brought Father's crimes to light in my first life.
In my first life, the evidence had been there—documents showing diverted funds, testimonies from witnesses, financial records that didn't match, correspondence that suggested Father was selling military information to rival kingdoms.
It all pointed to him. Undeniably. Conclusively. I'd spent those five years believing it was real. That Father had actually committed crimes. That House Rovaan fell because we deserved it.
But what if Duke Castor didn't just expose Father's crimes? What if he created them?
Forged documents. False testimonies from people he controlled. Planted evidence that looked legitimate because he'd had years to set it up.
Correspondence that Father never wrote but appeared in Father's handwriting because Duke Castor had access to skilled forgers.
That's why Father couldn't defend himself. Not because he was guilty and caught red-handed. But because the proof was manufactured so perfectly that denial looked like desperation.
Because trying to claim "those documents are fake" sounded like exactly what a guilty man would say. Because Duke Castor had spent years building an airtight case that no one would question.
And I'd accepted it without question. Just believed Father was a criminal and spent five years running from the consequences.
But I never investigated. Never asked why Father's crimes were exposed, who stood to benefit, whether the evidence was real or fabricated. I just accepted that he was guilty because everyone said so, because the proof seemed ironclad, because what else could I do?
I never looked deeper. Never questioned. Never tried to understand. Just survived. And failed even at that.
This time I need to do what I didn't do before. I need to see the world for myself. Understand the players.
Know who Father really is—not the distant, cold man from my memories, but the person I met at dinner tonight. The one who looked at me with concern and said "Don't worry about such things, Eledy. You focus on being happy."
I need to know what Duke Castor really wants.
Why he's spent two years systematically destroying us. What his endgame is. How deep this conspiracy goes and who else is involved.
I need evidence. Real evidence. Not just diary entries and suspicions and patterns I've noticed. Physical proof that Duke Castor is fabricating charges. Documents that show the forgery. Witnesses who'll testify to the truth. The kind of evidence that can't be dismissed or explained away.
I need to watch him. Learn his methods. Find out who his allies are—which nobles follow his lead because they're actively part of the conspiracy, and which are just opportunists jumping on the bandwagon.
Figure out how he operates, what his next moves will be, where he's vulnerable.
Should I see it for myself? Go to the next gatherings? The next royal banquet?
I'm twelve. A child with no magic who just publicly humiliated herself at the Crown Prince's birthday party yesterday.
The nobles are probably still gossiping about it—"did you hear? Count Rovaan's daughter fell flat on her face. Some say she was drunk. Others say she couldn't handle the pressure. Either way, absolutely mortifying."
The thought made my stomach clench with nausea.
If I show up at another gathering now, I'm just giving Duke Castor another target to hit. Another opportunity to corner me, mock me, bait Father into defending me and looking weak in the process.
I'd be walking into his trap with nothing. No power, no allies, no plan. Just a scared twelve-year-old girl everyone already thinks is worthless. He'd destroy me worse than before.
Or do I wait? Prepare myself until I'm fifteen and can enter the Academy?
But the Academy rejected Eledy for zero magical capacity—they won't take me either unless I have something else to offer. And three years of hiding while Duke Castor tightens the noose around Father's neck? Three years of doing nothing while watching everything fall apart the same way it did before?
In my first life, Father fell when I was twenty. That means in three years—when I would be fifteen—the accusations were already forming. The evidence was being planted. The conspiracy was in its final stages. If I wait until fifteen, I'd be too late. Father would already be doomed.
Neither option is right. Going out now means destruction. Waiting three years means destruction. I need something different. A completely different approach.
I need to see for myself what's happening around me, around father. I need to be closer to him if I want to do that.
And I need power.
Information is power. Connections are power. Proof is power. The kind of power that can't be dismissed because it's inconvenient. The kind that forces people to pay attention, to reconsider, to question what they thought they knew.
But even that won't be enough. If it were, Eledy wouldn't have to die like this—helplessly. I have to learn to defend myself.
Not magic—I'll never have that. The aptitude test doesn't lie. Zero capacity means zero capacity. No amount of wishing or training will change that fundamental lack.
If magic was closed to me, then I needed another path.
Something outside talent—something learned, earned, built. And this world had one: tools that let the powerless fight beside mages. Items, not mana. Skill, not bloodline.
Weed!
I stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor.
The thought struck me like lightning, electric and sudden and right.
My heart started racing, adrenaline flooding my system, making my fingers tingle and my breath come faster.
I'll become a weed user!