CHAPTER 110: HE KNOWS

[STATUS WINDOW]

Name: Brandon (Past Life: Alaric Noir)

Race: Human

Age: 19

Title: Slave, Model Servant, Prince of Blackthorn (The Fallen King)

Essence Path: The Path of #$#&##@##

Sub-Path: Flame Essence

Rank: D-

EXP: 2950 / 3900 — 800/5400

Stats:

STR: 65 — 80

AGI: 79 — 94

END: 66 — 81

WIL: 41 — 56

CHA: 49 — 64

INT: 60 (??) — 75 (??)

Free stats points: 0 — 37

Domination Points: 750 — 3100

{A/N: 50 from Daily quests, 1500 from the main quest, rest from farming from the banquet}

Main Quest: Subjugate Selene Glimor (Completed)

System Level: 2 (Requires 3000 Domination Points to Upgrade)

Skill Tree:

-Intermediate Fire spell (F)

-Fireball

-Flame Arrow

-Burst Step

-Scorchblade Arts (S):

*First Form- Flame Blade.

*Second Form- Flame Slash.

Shop: Basic Tier Items

Obedience Meter: Target Not Found!

Loyalty Meter: Target not found!

Harem Tracker: 0

DP Exchange: Available

??? (Locked – Requires System Level 3)

[Ding!]

[Bonus Reward for Completing First Main Quest: Subjugate Selene Glimor]

[You have obtained the skill: Dominion’s Gaze]

[Description:]

The eyes of one who has held absolute authority cannot be forgotten.

When host maintain direct eye contact with a target, they experience mounting psychological pressure. Their pride erodes, confidence wavers, and primal instincts hit, submission or flight.

[Passive Effect: Your gaze carries inherent weight. Others find it difficult to maintain eye contact, often looking away without understanding why.]

[Active Effect: By channeling Essence into your eyes and focusing on a single target, you amplify the pressure exponentially. Weak-willed individuals may kneel reflexively. Those of equal strength feel discomfort. The truly powerful merely sense something dangerous behind your eyes.]

[Current Limitations:]

- Active use consumes Essence proportional to target’s resistance

- Maximum duration: 10 seconds of focused gaze

- Effectiveness reduced against those with stronger cultivation

- Cannot compel actions, only create psychological pressure]

[Warning: Overuse on unprepared targets may cause permanent psychological disorder and overusing on someone superior can backfire on host’s brain.]

Alaric blinked, his crimson eyes flicking to the floating panel displaying the new skill.

Dominion’s Gaze.

He didn’t flinch, didn’t even raise an eyebrow, just tilted his head slightly, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

"Dramatic. Though I suppose ’mildly intimidating stare’ doesn’t have the same ring to it."

He lifted the wine glass again, swirling the contents thoughtfully before taking another deliberate sip.

"System," he said, voice quiet but firm, "what exactly do you mean by ’strength’? How can one compare this... effect against others.

[Effectiveness depends on willpower (WIL). Host’s rank allows relative comparison.]

[Average WIL stat at D- rank for Awakeners is 40.]

[Note: Individuals who aren’t awakened typically possess WIL of 5-15]

Alaric’s gaze narrowed, briefly. "Hmm."

"Willpower." He drained the rest of the wine in one swallow and set the glass down with a soft clink.

"Of course it is."

He leaned his head back against the sofa, staring at the ceiling’s painted cherubs that seemed to mock him with their eternal smiles.

"You give me a potentially useful skill, and naturally, coincidentally it’s tied to the one attribute I’ve been ignoring."

His eyes flicked back to the still-hovering panel. "Fifty-six against an average of forty."

He rubbed his face, fingers pressing against his temples where a headache was beginning to form. The wine, probably. Or the evening’s complications.

"At least it’s higher than the common rabble." Another sigh escaped him.

"Still, not exactly what I’d call formidable... yet."

After a pause, he straightened, letting the weight of decision lift from his shoulders.

"Never mind. I’ll think about it later."

He stood up from sofa, joints protesting after sitting too long.

The fire had burned low, casting longer shadows across the room.

He dismissed the panel with a flick of his mind and moved toward the door.

"Right now, I need to figure out how to handle tomorrow morning... Too much hassle."

The door clicked shut behind him, leaving only dying embers and the lingering scent of jasmine and wine.

*********

Tap! Tap!

The hallway stretched before her like an accusation.

Tap! Tap!

Each step echoed too loud, or maybe that was just the blood pounding in her ears.

Selene’s hand found the wall, fingers splayed against cool stone for balance.

The wine made everything tilt slightly, not drunk, she wasn’t drunk, just... unsteady.

After swaying for few minutes, she finally reached there.

Her door.

She fumbled with the handle, then pushed the door open and slipped inside.

Though inside, there was nothing except darkness.

She didn’t light a candle or chandelier, couldn’t bear to see herself in the mirror yet.

The door clicked shut and she leaned against it, forehead pressed to wood.

"Stupid." The word came out as a whisper. "Stupid, stupid, stupid."

Her fingers rose to her lips without conscious thought.

Still sensitive. Still warm. She could taste him.

Then quickly, she jerked her hand away.

Moving to her vanity by memory, settled heavily on a nearby chair.

Pins scattered across the surface as she pulled them from what remained of her hairstyle.

Tink! Tink! Tink!

Each one made a small sound against wood.

In the darkness, she could pretend the heat in her face was anger.

Could pretend the trembling in her hands was outrage at his presumption.

Except he hadn’t presumed anything.

"Wine." She said it out loud, testing the excuse.

"Too much wine. Anyone would have—"

Would have what? Grabbed their supposed nephew’s hair—who was none other than a stranger—a slave? Pressed against him like a woman starved for touch?

She stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor.

Her dress felt too tight, too warm.

She pulled it at the laces with shaking fingers, needing to breathe, needing to think clearly.

The dress pooled at her feet.

She stepped out of it, leaving it there. Margaret would get it in the morning. The same Margaret, who smiled so prettily when Alaric asked about her grandson.

"Stop." She bit her lip.

Stop thinking about him. Damn it.

Then she moved towards her wardrobe. Skimming through the variety of garments.

Finally, she pulled on her nightgown, the cotton blessedly cool against overheated skin.

She then closed her wardrobe and moved towards her bed, the covers had changed by servants hours ago.

She sat on the edge, hands folded in her lap like a child awaiting punishment.

Tomorrow. She had to face him tomorrow.

The thought made her stomach clench.

Those knowing eyes, that insufferable smirk, like he’d won something tonight.

He was nothing but a tool to her. A mere pawn she was using for her own benefits. She had made him her heir, even took the ownership ink from her husband to keep him under the control.

She tried to manipulate him, seduce him, so that he could be bound to her. Not out of fear or duty or obligation. But from the ’need’ to be with her.

But. That insufferable bastard had flipped the table.

Now , the careful balance she’d maintained, the professional distance she’d kept, was gone, it was gone in a mere moment of vulnerability.

"No." She spoke to the darkness, her tone firm now.

"Nothing’s changed."

She would wake up early.

Dress carefully, something severe, high-necked.

She would take breakfast in her study, citing urgent correspondence.

When they did meet, she would be perfectly composed. Cold, even. He was still her ward, still the manufactured heir she controlled.

One moment of weakness didn’t change the fundamental structure of their arrangement.

Her fingers twisted in the bedsheets.

Except it hadn’t felt like weakness.

It had felt like finally exhaling after holding her breath for months.

Like something clicking into place that she hadn’t realized was missing.

"Stop," she hissed again.

And dropped on her bed, staring at the canopy above.

And shut her eyes down, to drift into the deep slumber and forget about it even happened.

But, every time... every damn time she close her eyes, she saw his face in firelight.

Felt his thumb against her pulse. Heard him say her name without titles, without pretense.

Just Selene.

When was the last time someone had seen her as just Selene? Not the baroness, not the woman holding the Glimor estate together through sheer will. Not the—

"It doesn’t matter." She rolled onto her side, pulling covers up to her chin.

"Tomorrow, everything returns to normal."

But even as she forced her breathing to slow, forced her mind toward the sleep, she knew she was lying.

Nothing would be normal again.

The taste of him lingered despite her best efforts to forget, and somewhere in the darkness, she could swear she still felt the pressure of his hand against her neck.

She pressed her fingers to her lips one more time and hated herself for wishing he was still there.

*******

The first light of dawn barely seeped through the tall windows, casting pale stripes across the polished wooden floor.

Selene stirred, fingers brushing against the soft cotton of her nightgown.

She pressed her palms against her eyes, then sat up.

With deliberate movements, she smoothed her dark tresses into a severe braid, tugging at stray strands.

She moved to her wardrobe, selected her morning attire carefully: a high-necked, tightly corseted dress of muted jade, sleeves stiffened just enough to demand respect. Nothing flamboyant.

After getting ready, she moved to have her breakfast, and luckily, he wasn’t there. Sleeping probably?

Though she didn’t care and came back to her room quickly after eating and sat at her desk.

Now. Three letters lay before her. As she started at them, instead of opening.

Then—

The door creaked opened without a knock.

She didn’t look up. Only one person in this house would dare.

"Running away doesn’t suit you." Alaric spoke in an amused tone after slipping inside.

"Neither does hiding."

"I’m working." She quickly grabbed her pen and moved across paper, writing nothing of importance.

"Some of us have responsibilities beyond studying fairy tales about dead kingdoms."

"Fairy tales?" He moved closer.

She could hear his footsteps now, measured and unhurried.

"Is that what we’re calling last night?"

Her pen stilled.

"There was no last night worth discussing."

"No?" He was at her desk now.

And slid a letter towards her.

"Then perhaps you should read this."

The seal bore the Rithvale crest in crimson wax.

"It arrived this morning," he said softly.

"Addressed to you specifically. From Duke Rithvale."

She finally looked up, meeting his eyes. He wasn’t smirking. His expression was entirely serious.

"He knows."