Hate me, Miss Witch!

The clamor disappeared, leaving only those cold words echoing.

The entire hall was so quiet it was frightening.

A moment before, everyone at the venue had been filled with envy for the lucky one chosen by the Borgia family.

But now, facing those pitch-black pupils, a chill rose in everyone's heart.

They looked at the youth with black hair and black eyes standing before them. His figure was slightly slender, yet they seemed to see a malevolent spirit.

A malevolent spirit that had walked out of the great fire of Ceylon.

But Enola was not afraid. She just quietly came to Shiayar's side and took his hand.

Eight years ago on the Northern Territory Icy Plains, she had held Shiayar's hand just like this. They had felt the faint warmth between them as they slowly made their way through the endless snowstorm.

"Shiayar Egutt."

A long sigh fell from on high.

"Do you know what you have refused?"

"I am well aware," replied Shiayar calmly, "but I still have to thank you for finally calling me by my true name, instead of that Shiayar Ingritt."

"That is a name belonging to the Winter Flower, belonging to the Count of Austere Winter..."

"It is a splendid and glorious surname, but it is not mine."

The evening wind gusted sharply through the night. Blowing through the window, it rustled Shiayar's collar.

"The Borgia family has never been to the Northern Territory, nor have they ever made a marriage pact with the Winter Flower Family..."

"Ceylon was nothing but a frontier for exiling criminals in ancient times. The Winter Flower Family that ruled Ceylon—to put it nicely, was called 'guarding the frontier'; to put it harshly, it was just exile. How could they merit the favor of the Crimson Rose Family?"

Shiayar's gaze lifted, looking at the elder resembling a gardener above.

"And I am not some son of the Count of Austere Winter. The Winter Flower Family has dwindled to a single branch in this generation, and the Count has only one daughter."

"So what?"

The voice from above, ancient and undisturbed, descended.

"If I say you are, then you are."

"Yes," Shiayar said with a voiceless chuckle. "That's just a savage little town. It takes over ten hours by sled to reach and is isolated from the civilized world in both information and cognition. Who would delve into the rights and wrongs of it?

"Moreover, it is now a ruin. You say I am the orphan of Winter Flower, so I am... No one will challenge the conclusions of the Borgia family."

"Besides, the script you so carefully crafted for me is still so perfect—

"The fallen noble orphan overcomes all adversities. The King returns to complete his vengeance and marries the noble daughter. Such a story meets people's expectations.

"When the story comes to a perfect end, every reader will only clap in satisfaction, saying 'a fitting finale.'

"But I know I am not the protagonist you've depicted in that story."

Shiayar's words paused momentarily.

"I am just the most ordinary civilian of Ceylon."

"From as early as I can remember, I had no parents. I was raised by an old icy plains hunter. Later, the old hunter passed away, but the hunting skills he taught me were enough to keep me fed and warm."

"Though simple, those days were not too bad... but they were destroyed, destroyed by that great fire."

"Indeed, this is not how a proper script should develop—"

"But since ancient times...

"Whether noble or commoner...

"If you owe money, you pay it back; if you take a life, you give yours. It's the natural order of things."

His gaze fell upon Warwick's body, pierced by a Great Sin Armor-Piercing Bullet. It was already cold, yet Warwick's eyes remained unclosed in death.

"According to Imperial law, the principal offender must be executed, and their accomplices cannot escape punishment."

As his words concluded, Shiayar felt the last trace of rawness and dissonance within the depths of his soul disappear.

His heart, long sealed, felt as if struck by a mallet. Dust cascaded from it, and it resounded with a boom.

His soul and mind achieved unity, becoming utterly complete.

His spiritual power resonated with the Spirit Realm, and that illusory Spiritual World gradually solidified.

Myriad starlights blossomed. Forged from the Sands of Time, they were pure and dreamlike, illuminating the dark Spiritual World as the dazzling points of light converged into an ocean.

Stars transformed into a sea.

...

"But that is just your own claim," that old voice rang out once again, still ancient and undisturbed.

"Frontier drifters conspired with rebels from the theocratic kingdom, colluding to share intelligence, ultimately orchestrating Ceylon's tragic downfall."

"Now he actually conspires with a wanted fugitive from the theocratic kingdom, framing and defaming the Borgia family."

"This old servant was unobservant for a moment and nearly allowed this madman to become my dear daughter's fiancé. This is truly an embarrassment before all our distinguished guests! I must personally intervene to rectify this."

Before the voice faded, that enormous, mountain-like authority descended from above.

The spiritual pressure, unique to a Legendary, descended unreservedly upon Shiayar.

Normally, such pressure would be enough to make even a four or 5-Ring expert's mind tremble violently, pinning them to the ground, unable to rise.

But Shiayar did not budge an inch.

His spiritual power was continuously climbing, breaking through that illusory, misty barrier. It converged into a new moonlight—his 4th Soul Pact.

But this was not the end. That newly born illusory world boomed, and under the starlight formed from the Sands of Time, it continuously carved out new, hazy expanses.

The pressure from the Legendary was shattered, nothing standing in its way.

From his high position, the elder who resembled a gardener showed a hint of surprise in his eyes for the first time.