Claude woke up more refreshed than ever… It had been, without a doubt, the best sleep of his miserable life. The kind of sleep that healed wounds you didn't even know you had. For the first time in years, he wasn't sore, cold, or covered in filth. His body felt light, his mind—well, slightly less broken—and everything seemed like it was finally going right for once.
Even if it was a stolen life.
But, of course, as with all things in Claude's world, that fleeting moment of joy crumbled the second his eyes landed on the dark silhouette looming beside his bed.
Roy. Still standing. In the exact same spot. Like some cursed relic of insomnia.
'Dammit! Why is he still here?! He's creepy as hell!'
Claude's mood soured instantly as the man noticed his awakening. Roy's posture didn't shift, but his eyes locked onto Claude with unnerving precision.
"Good morning, young master. Did you have a good rest?" Roy asked in his smooth, overly formal tone.
Claude stared at him for a moment. The man could have passed for a marble statue in a high-end mausoleum if not for the blinking.
He was dressed in the same spotless suit, his expression unreadable. A trained killer trying very hard to play the role of a polite butler. And succeeding, which somehow made it worse.
'Well… at least it feels good having someone do everything for you. I can get used to this whole 'noble brat' thing.'
Claude shifted slightly under the heavy blanket. The bed was still divine. No, it was more than that—it was godlike. Leaving it felt like blasphemy. But alas, nobles had schedules, apparently.
"I-I had a good night of sleep," he mumbled, stuttering like a porcelain flower petal caught in the wind.
He hated it.
Mimicking Elyas' nervous quirks was annoying. If he was going to keep pretending to be this feeble noble boy, he'd have to start reshaping the image. There was no way in hell he could keep up the scared-lamb routine forever without vomiting from self-loathing.
He couldn't exactly act like himself—cold, indifferent, and borderline murderous. That would raise a few eyebrows. And he definitely couldn't pull off the cocky, charismatic noble stereotype either. No, he'd need to become something else. Someone unassuming… a soft-spoken, bookish boy with a hidden spark of confidence. Harmless. Sympathetic. But not entirely useless.
And most importantly? Not a threat.
Two goals began to crystallize in his mind.
First: Start altering Elyas' meek public image—subtly, carefully, over time.
Second: Discover the true nature of his cursed, vague, possibly useless abilities.
The first goal was manageable. It just needed time and acting skills, which he had plenty of after a lifetime of lying. But the second?
The second was a nightmare.
He still didn't know what [Nothing, Forever] actually did, and even [Faceless] felt like a half-explained magic trick. No detailed tutorials, no friendly guides. Just ominous phrases and instincts that came and went like whispers in the dark. And to top it all off, he had a glorified scarecrow breathing down his neck every second of the day.
So yeah. He was screwed.
With a sigh, Claude shelved the existential dread and decided to get out of bed.
Roy, ever the loyal shadow, stepped forward without a word and helped him down like he was handling a fragile vase. A maid was summoned immediately to prepare a bath.
Minutes later, Claude was sinking into scalding, fragrant water, surrounded by marble tiles and golden fixtures that screamed wealth. The steam clung to his skin like a comforting ghost, and the perfumed oils in the water soothed aches he didn't even remember getting.
He sank deeper into the bath, his head resting back against the smooth edge.
It was paradise.
'Elyas experienced this all his life…? No wonder he was bawling in that prison cell. Honestly, if I was forced to sleep in a pile of hay after knowing this kind of luxury existed, I'd start crying too. Probably stab someone out of spite.'
The water hugged his body like silk, and for a moment, he considered drowning himself right then and there—not out of despair, but because there was no way life could get better than this.
Eventually, after the bathwater cooled and his skin was pruned, Claude allowed himself to be dried and dressed. He was wrapped in a fine white shirt that hugged his shoulders just right, layered under a deep blue waistcoat stitched with silver thread. His pants—Fall Front Trousers, apparently—fit perfectly. His hair, freshly washed and fragrant, was left down in a neat middle part that framed his face.
It made him look longer, leaner, like a princeling out of a fairy tale.
He stared at himself in the mirror.
'I never thought I'd wear clothes like this in my entire life… How times change. I used to scrape dried blood off my shirt. Now I worry about wrinkle lines in silk.'
A servant soon arrived and politely led him through the vast hallways of the estate. The corridors were impossibly tall, lined with polished stone, heavy paintings, and glittering chandeliers that looked like they weighed more than Claude himself. The carpets were thick enough to bury a body under.
Every step felt unreal.
Eventually, they arrived at the dining room. It was a regal space, with massive stained-glass windows pouring golden light onto the polished floor. A long oak table dominated the room, its surface laden with silverware that looked like it had never been touched.
Howard and Matilda sat waiting, dressed immaculately even this early in the morning.
Claude bowed his head slightly and greeted them as a maid guided him to a chair.
"Eat well, son," Howard said kindly, his voice warm but firm.
Matilda gave him a small, graceful nod.
Claude smiled politely, but inside, he was in chaos.
The scent of the food hit him like a warhammer.
It was otherworldly.
Savory aromas curled into his nostrils like sweet smoke, each whiff more intoxicating than the last. Meats, spices, freshly baked bread… every bite looked like it had been cooked by gods, blessed by angels, and plated by artists.
Claude felt like his nose had committed a crime just by smelling it.
'No filthy rat from the outskirts should be allowed to smell something this divine… I'm pretty sure I'm going to die just from the shock to my system.'
His instincts screamed at him to devour everything on the table. To eat like a feral beast that hadn't seen food in days. But no—he had to behave.
He didn't know a single table manner, but he paid close attention to how Howard and Matilda moved. Napkin on lap. Fork on the left. Tiny bites. No slurping, no chewing noises, no licking the plate clean even if it sparkled with holy gravy.
'Of course nobles have weird rules for even a simple thing like eating. Can't just shovel food into your mouth. Gotta perform a damn ballet routine with your fork first.'
Despite his internal complaints, he adjusted quickly. His years surviving among cutthroats had taught him how to read people, and nobles were just another breed of predator.
He took his first bite—something that looked like roasted lamb but tasted like joy incarnate—and his mind shattered.
The meat melted on his tongue. The spices exploded like a symphony, each note dancing across his senses. It was overwhelming. Sacred. Probably illegal.
He couldn't think, couldn't even form a coherent thought.
'T-this is really heaven, isn't it…? This food is illegal. It has to be. I feel like I'm eating a blessing meant for royalty. Wait. I am royalty now. Hah! Suck it, world.'
Claude quietly chewed, smiling sweetly at his "parents" while silently drowning in bliss.
After finishing his food, Claude wasn't just full—he was energized. Invincible. He felt like he could march into the wilderness, barehanded, and suplex a Colossal Beast into the dirt. Maybe even two. At once.
He sat back, chest slightly puffed, basking in the afterglow of culinary ecstasy.
"Son."
Howard's voice rang out, snapping Claude out of his euphoric haze like a cold splash of water.
"Y-yes, Father…?" he replied quickly, reverting to Elyas' timid tone.
Howard's expression was calm, but there was a certain gravity in his voice.
"I know it's too soon, but there will be a ball to celebrate your safe return to us. We've invited many nobles. Several Barons, Viscounts… a few Counts as well. Even the Duchess herself will be attending."
Claude froze.
Not because he was pretending to be Elyas—but because he, Claude, was absolutely, undeniably not ready to socialize with a herd of aristocrats. He was barely managing to hold himself together now, and that was in front of two people who wanted to love him. Throw in a crowd of sharp-eyed noble kids? He'd be exposed and gutted by dessert.
Howard continued, oblivious to the internal breakdown happening across the table. "Of course, it won't commence until a week from now. Your brother will also be attending. He's returning from the Academy. Since his semester just ended, he'll be home by Monday. The ball will be on Friday."
Claude smiled stiffly.
Internally, he was spiraling.
'Maybe I should abandon this whole Elyas thing after all. Kill someone else. Start fresh. Be a fake Duke's son in a smaller city. Or a blind priest, maybe. Hell, I'll take street performer if it means no more tea parties with psychopaths in pearls—'
But then his eyes drifted back down to the empty plate in front of him.
That divine, memory-etching meal.
And just like that, all rebellious thoughts were erased.
"I-I will do my best, Father," Claude said with as much sincerity as he could fake.
'A week is a lot of time… I can prepare.'