Ophelia stared at the woman reflected in the mirror.

She wore a gown tailored perfectly to her form, every fold and cut accentuating her elegance. The fabric shimmered softly under the light. Jewels adorned her neck and ears, and a delicate crown rested on her head.

She looked like a queen—untouchable, regal, flawless.

“Bravo! A masterpiece!” exclaimed Alfredo, the most renowned stylist in all of Ataraxia, clapping his hands in delight.

“Alfredo,” Ophelia said coolly, her tone slicing through his excitement.

“Yes, my Queeeeen~!” he sang, twirling dramatically.

“I told you not to exaggerate the gown or my makeup. I asked you to make me look… less beautiful,” she said, frowning at her reflection.

“It’s a dilemma! You’re just so—”

“Leave,” she ordered flatly.

Alfredo gulped, signaled his assistants, and they all hurriedly exited the room.

Ophelia sighed and returned her gaze to the mirror. Her brow furrowed.

“Disciple.”

She turned swiftly. Her master, Allforone, stood at the doorway, dressed sharply in a formal tuxedo.

“Master… you look wonderful,” Ophelia said with a soft smile.

Her master nodded, stepping into the room.

“You do too, my disciple,” he replied calmly.

She guided him to a chair and poured him his favorite tea with practiced care.

“Will the Evander Heir be your escort tonight?” he asked after a sip.

“No, Master,” she replied.

“Then perhaps… that knight?”

“He won’t be either,” Ophelia answered, shaking her head gently.

“I would love it if you were my escort,” she said with a hint of mischief, “but that would cause too much of a stir.”

“Indeed,” he agreed with a faint smile.

There was a short silence before he asked, “What are your plans now?”

She paused. That question always made her chest feel heavier.

“You already know the answer, Master,” she replied, offering him a small, quiet smile.

“You want to live a slacker’s life.”

“Yes. That’s right.”

Allforone looked at her deeply. There was affection in his eyes—but also concern. He knew. She was not meant for peace.

She was born for storms.

“We’ll be leaving after your celebration,” he said, standing slowly. “Returning to the Martial Society. Visit us when you can.”

“So soon?” she asked, startled.

“Hm. Now that I know you’re safe and smiling in your new home, I can rest easy.”

“Master…”

He reached out and gently placed a hand on her head. “Whatever decision you make, child… know that I am here for you.”

And with that, he turned and left.

Ophelia stood in silence.

She looked back at the mirror.

At the flawless, queenly figure staring back at her.

“You shouldn’t say things like that, Master,” she murmured with a sad, crooked smile. “What if I end up destroying this world?”

She shook her head.

And turned away from the mirror.

--

The noble attendees couldn’t help but marvel at the grandeur of the Lamarca Clan’s banquet. Every detail screamed prestige—the dazzling chandeliers, the full orchestra playing in perfect harmony, the lavish dining hall filled with gourmet dishes and imported wines worth millions. It was a display worthy of one of the Four Great Clans.

Almost every invited noble had come.

“How have you been, Lady France?”

“Oh my! Lady Paige!”

It wasn’t just curiosity about the Young Lady of the Lamarca Clan that filled the hall tonight. Nobles came to build alliances, to whisper secrets behind silk fans, and to quietly form factions—each one vying for power and influence. The air shimmered with ambition masked by courtly smiles.

Even those from the lesser noble houses clustered at the fringes, forming their own subtle alliances.

Noblemen huddled in circles, discussing trade routes, marriage arrangements, and political strategies.

“Lady Zevella, it’s been quite a while since we last saw you,” one noble lady said sweetly, turning to the poised young woman of the Donovan Clan.

[Refer to Chapter 11 if you’ve forgotten Lady Zevella.]

“I’ve been busy preparing for my duties as Heiress,” she replied coldly, lifting her glass with practiced elegance.

“We admire your… diligence,” one of them said, with just a touch too much sweetness. Whispers had spread about the scandal—how Lady Zevella was humiliated by none other than the rumored girlfriend of Zayron Callum, the feared heir of the Callum Clan. Some even said her skin was scarred by scalding soup during the altercation.

Lady Zevella offered a tight, artificial smile, hiding her simmering fury behind perfectly painted lips.

A quiet laugh broke the tension.

“Lady Nataska, what’s so amusing?” one of the noble ladies asked, raising a brow.

“Oh, nothing,” Nataska said with a sly smile. “Just… remembering something funny.”

Before the tension could escalate, a herald’s voice rang out across the grand hall:

“Esteemed guests, please rise and welcome the noble representatives of the Evander Clan. Presenting Lord Yael Evander, Head of the Clan; his eldest son and rightful Heir, Master Dashiell Evander; and the Second Young Master, Master Rushiell Evander.”

A wave of whispers surged through the crowd.

“Oh my! Young Master Dashiell is as dashing as ever!”

“They say he visits the Lamarca estate frequently.”

“I wonder how special she must be to capture his heart…”

Rushiell leaned toward his brother, frowning slightly as he noticed Dashiell glaring coldly at the noblewomen approaching them.

“What are you doing, brother?” he asked quietly.

“I don’t want her to misunderstand me… to think I’m just another flirt,” Dashiell said, his voice laced with conviction.

Their father, Lord Yael, glanced at his son.

“Dashiell. I will not stop you from pursuing the Young Lady of Lamarca. But remember this—your duty as the Heir must always come first.”

Dashiell’s gaze sharpened, his voice cutting through the air like a blade. “Whether I pursue her or not… is none of your concern, Clan Head.”

A silent clash passed between father and son, heavy with unspoken history.

This son of mine is becoming harder to control. If I lower my guard, who knows what moves he’ll make behind my back… Lord Yael thought grimly.

Rushiell sighed quietly as the tension built. His eyes drifted to the Elders surrounding them like shadows.

These vultures are still hoping I’ll fight for succession… What a joke. I want no part of their schemes.

A while later, another special announcement was heard.

“Esteemed ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the Clan Head of the Night Clan, Mr. Tyron Night, and his Heir, Young Master Kazimir Night.”

A sharp intake of breath swept through the hall. Before the gasps could fully settle, another announcement followed—

“Let us also welcome our honored guests—the Head of the Callum Clan, Mr. Quaquin Callum; Madam Regina Callum; and the Heir of the Callum Clan, Young Master Zayron Callum.”

Shock rippled across the grand hall. Whispers buzzed like static.

For the first time in decades, the three most feared, most elusive families in all of Ataraxia stood under the same roof. A historic moment—unthinkable until now.

Attendants, trained to perfection, guided the distinguished Clans to their special seats. Their tables were set apart, adorned with rare silks, gold-rimmed dinnerware—a visible line drawn between power and privilege.

The Clan Heads and Elders exchanged only curt nods, formal and distant.

Meanwhile, the three young Heirs didn’t even spare each other a glance.

It was the first time the new generation of Heirs appeared together. Their auras alone were overwhelming. Simply sitting there, they exuded the presence of dangerous kings.

The noble ladies couldn’t help but be awestruck by their refined features, some even blushing or quietly squealing.

The noblemen, on the other hand, watched with thinly veiled fear and respect. Everyone knew these Heirs already held power that could rival their own Clan Heads.

They shared one infamous title—Tyrant.

And just like that, the Lamarca Clan proved its unrivaled influence, having brought together the most untouchable Clans in Ataraxia.

Moments later, the Clan Head of the Lamarca Clan, Castillon Lamarca, stepped onto the stage.

“A splendid evening to all who joined us tonight,” he began, voice calm but firm. “My heartfelt thanks to our noble guests, especially my esteemed friends.” He glanced toward the three elite tables, earning a round of polite applause.

“Now, it is my honor to introduce the pride of the Lamarca Clan—my beloved daughter. Please welcome, the Young Lady of the Lamarca Clan.”

And the world stilled.

A hush fell over the room.

All eyes turned.

The murmurs, the laughter, the posturing—everything stopped.

Bathed in golden light, the grand staircase revealed a figure descending with quiet poise: Ophelia.

She wore a gown spun from starlight and dusk—midnight blue with silver embroidery that shimmered like moving constellations. Her presence didn’t ask for attention; it commanded it. Each step echoed with grace and quiet power.

A delicate crown adorned her head—not too grand, but enough to remind everyone who she was. Her eyes scanned the hall, calm and unreadable.

“She’s not just beautiful…” someone whispered behind a gilded fan. “She’s… terrifying.”

“Magnificent,” someone else murmured.

The noblemen, proud a moment ago, now felt small beneath her gaze. Noble ladies, draped in the finest silks and diamonds, suddenly felt ordinary.

“Wow… is she even real?”

Ophelia looked across the sea of nobles like a sovereign observing her kingdom. No trace of nervousness showed in her eyes. She offered a soft, composed smile.

“Everyone, I am Ophelia Lamarca. I want to thank each of you for taking the time to attend this banquet in my honor. I hope you all enjoy the evening.” She gracefully lifted her gown and gave a slight bow. Her father, Castillon Lamarca, watched her with pride.

Unknown to him, Ophelia’s heart was racing. Two men—two she did not expect to see—were here.

But her flawless composure betrayed nothing. Even now, she naturally avoided the three intense gazes directed at her from the front rows.

As she stepped forward toward the stage, a Knight awaited her.

Conradd Zivilla gently took Ophelia’s hand, steady and respectful, as he helped her lift the hem of her gown. Castillon Lamarca gave him an approving nod.

“My daughter, let us greet our esteemed guests,” Castillon said with quiet pride.

“Yes, Father,” Ophelia replied, masking the tension that coiled within her chest.

Beside them, Gillion Lamarca—her cousin and the newly appointed Heir of the Lamarca Clan—stepped forward to join the greeting. The silent Knight Commander followed, stoic as ever.

As the three approached, the Clan Heads rose in acknowledgment.

“You have a very beautiful daughter, Castillon,” Clan Head Yael Evander said with a rare smile.

“Yes, she is,” Castillon answered without hesitation.

“You’re lucky to have such a graceful daughter,” Tyron Night added, voice calm but heavy with implication.

“Hahaha. You're right. I’m beyond proud and grateful to have found my daughter,” Castillon replied, his laughter carrying warmth—and subtle warning.

“I suddenly feel like I want a daughter of my own,” Quaquin Callum remarked dryly, earning a few polite chuckles.

Ophelia offered a serene smile in response, though she knew well the kind of men who stood before her. Behind the noble facades were rulers forged in ruthless ambition—men who could smile one moment and destroy Clans the next.

Still, she bowed gracefully. “Thank you for your kind words.”

“It’s an honor to finally meet you, Young Master Zayron,” Gillion spoke, stepping forward with polite confidence. As the Clan’s Heir, it was his duty to initiate diplomacy.

He had met the Heirs of Night and Evander before. But this was the first time he stood face to face with the infamous Zayron Callum.

“Daughter,” Castillon turned to Ophelia, his tone still calm but subtly urging, “why don’t you join your cousin?”

Though she would have preferred to avoid them, Ophelia nodded obediently. There was no room for hesitation now.

‘I expected that idiot to come… but I didn’t expect the weirdo and the fool to show up too. This feels more like a reunion from hell.’ Ophelia sighed internally, schooling her expression into practiced serenity.

“Do you wish to leave, my lady?” asked the quiet but sharp-eyed knight standing beside her.

She turned slightly, lips parting in a faint sigh.

“It’s fine,” she murmured. “Whether I like it or not… moments like these are inevitable.”

She straightened, renewed poise in every step, and walked forward to face the Heirs.

“Greetings, gentlemen. A pleasure to meet you,” she said, her voice calm and graceful as she met the gaze of the three men, each pair of eyes locked intently on her.

Gillion Lamarca couldn’t help but feel impressed by his cousin’s composure.

There she was—standing tall before the infamous Heirs, men known across Ataraxia for their intimidating presence and undeniable charisma—and yet, Ophelia did not waver. She held her ground with quiet confidence, her presence as commanding as theirs.

To anyone watching, it was clear: she wasn’t beneath them. She stood as their equal.

“My lady, may I have this dance?” Dashiell Evander asked, extending his hand with a slight bow—every bit the perfect gentleman.

Ophelia offered a polite, almost apologetic smile.

“I appreciate the invitation, Young Master Dashiell…” she began, her voice soft but firm, “…but I believe it would be unfair to accept just one dance when there are other esteemed guests who might ask the same.”

A murmur rippled through the hall—graceful, clever, and neutral. A refusal, without being an offense.

Zayron Callum and Kazimir Night didn’t hide the flicker in their eyes—something wild, possessive, and deadly.

All eyes were now fixed in their direction, the hall holding its breath in anticipation.

Ophelia turned her gaze toward the crowd, expression calm, aloof—mask firmly in place.

“If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen. I still have guests to greet.”

With that, she turned and walked away—unhurried, unbothered, untouchable. Each step quiet, yet powerful. As if the storm behind her didn’t exist.

‘I miss my bed. My pillow. My blanket. My earpods,’ she thought dryly, the ghost of a smile curling her lips.

The moment she vanished into the crowd, the tension she left behind snapped like a blade.

The three men—Dashiell Evander. Kazimir Night. Zayron Callum—stood still, their gazes locked not on her, but on each other.

Predators.

Not just powerful heirs—but wolves cloaked in royal silk.

Each one dangerous in a different way.
Dashiell, quiet and unpredictable.
Kazimir, cold and calculating.
Zayron, fierce and relentless.

They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to.

The tension between them was a blade drawn in silence.

They knew.

They all wanted the same woman.

And not merely to win her affection—but to claim her.

To own her.

Each of them, in that fleeting moment, silently vowed:

“She’s mine.”
“I won’t lose her.”
“I’ll destroy anyone who touches her.”

Unspoken vows, breathed into the silence.

Gillion Lamarca felt a chill crawl down his spine.

None of them had any intention of backing down.

Gillion Lamarca, found himself hard to breath because of the dangerous tension between the Heirs.

Conradd Zivilla, unconsciously want to hide their young lady.

They could both feel it—the firestorm brewing behind those refined smiles. The kind of obsession that could burn kingdoms.

Ophelia glanced back, noticing Gillion’s uneasy posture.

“Brother Gillion,” she called lightly, “would you walk with me? I don’t know everyone here.”

The weight of her voice snapped the tension in the room like glass breaking.

“Of course,” Gillion replied, stepping forward—only to be interrupted.

“They should be the ones begging to be introduced,” Zayron Callum’s voice cut in—low, lazy, and sharp as a blade.
“Shall I drag them to their knees for you, baby?”

Time froze.

A collective inhale echoed through the hall.

Even the Clan Heads, seated with wine in hand and curiosity in their eyes, leaned forward. Castillon Lamarca frowned, gaze darkening toward the circle of wolves surrounding his daughter..

“Baby, you say? Dangerous claim, Callum. She’s not yours. She’s mine.” Kazimir Night’s voice was low and frigid.

“Stop harassing the Young Lady. She’s not yours.” Dashiell Evander’s tone was icy, barely concealing his fury.

The smell of gunpowder hung in the air.

Ophelia turned.

The warm smile on her face had vanished.

Amber eyes—sharp, furious—met theirs with the weight of a queen scolding unruly dogs.

‘These tyrants… I want to smash their faces.’

She stepped forward.

No raised voice. No outburst.

Just presence.

And the wolves stilled.

“Heir of Callum,” she began coldly, “we’ve only just met. I don’t know you. Do not call me that again.”

Her gaze shifted.

“Heir of Night, this is also our first meeting. Don’t lay claims on what isn’t yours.”

Finally, her eyes moved to all three.

“I expect to be respected. This is my banquet. And if you intend to cause a scene, I ask you to leave.”

Gasps echoed.

She turned slightly, glancing toward the high table where the Clan Heads sat.

“Of course, I don’t mean the Clan Heads,” she added smoothly.

The message was clear.

She may have been surrounded by kings-in-the-making, but she stood as a queen.

“My baby being angry is cute.”
Zayron Callum didn’t dare let the smirk reach his lips, but his eyes betrayed the gleam of amusement. In his mind, he was already cooing over his little kitten baring her claws.

“Still as hot-tempered as ever… my little Fifth.”
Kazimir Night watched her with a shadow of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. The fire in her eyes only made her more fascinating.

“I know I shouldn’t… but watching her unravel just a little—it’s captivating.”
Dashiell Evander kept his expression neutral, but beneath the stillness, curiosity and quiet delight flickered like candlelight.

They didn't show a hint of these thoughts on their faces. They knew better.

Because they all felt it—the pressure in the air, the silent threat coiled behind Ophelia’s glare.

The moment any of them so much as grinned, she would strike.

The silence that followed.

The crowd, once abuzz with murmurs and excitement, had turned still—frozen by the commanding presence of a single woman who dared to tame tyrants with her voice alone.

Ophelia’s eyes swept the hall like a blade.

Every noble, from high-ranking Elders to ambitious debutantes, felt the weight of her gaze. Whispers slowly began to rise again—soft, nervous, awed.

“…She silenced them?”

“She’s fearless.”

In the distance, Castillon Lamarca’s sharp gaze was fixed on the three heirs surrounding his daughter. His hands were clasped calmly behind him, but his jaw was tight.

The Clan Heads remained seated, sipping their wine as though watching a well-choreographed play. Yet in their eyes danced a mixture of interest, amusement, and caution.

“She’s more formidable than I thought,” Tyron Night, the Clan Head of Night Clan thought.

“A woman like that will change the game,” the Clan Head of Callum, Quaquin Callum thought, swirling his drink.

Yael Evander chuckled lowly and also thought “And the game has only just begun.”

Back at the center of the storm, the three heirs stood still, their silence now tinged with something far more dangerous than before—restraint.

It wasn’t fear.

It was anticipation.

They didn’t apologize.

They didn’t back down.

But they respected the line Ophelia had drawn, at least for now.

She gave them one last look, then turned gracefully.

“Let’s go, Brother Gillion.”

“Yes.” Gillion straightened, quickly falling in step beside her with barely disguised relief.

Conradd Zivilla followed closely, eyes sharp, hand resting near his sword hilt. He didn’t trust any of them.

As Ophelia walked away, the three heirs remained rooted in place, watching her retreating figure like hawks—silently vowing again, louder this time in the silence of their thoughts:

“Mine.”

--

GoddessNiMaster Note:

Oh my! Here it is! There will be more interactions between the male leads and Ophelia, making the scenes even more intense. Will our heroine still achieve her "Slackers life goal?"

Don’t forget to vote and share your thoughts on this chapter! A huge thank you to all the voters and commenters from the last chapter.

See you in the upcoming intense scenes!