A few days had passed since Ulrich’s encounter in the forest, and to his mild surprise, things had proceeded with quite satisfaction.

He had half-expected the woman who acted as Ceres’s benefactor in the novel to appear out of the shadows, demanding answers. But she had not appeared. In some ways, it was reassuring; it strongly suggested that she had not yet discovered Ceres’s existence. Yet, paradoxically, the silence put Ulrich on edge.

Would it truly be this simple? He was a man who preferred all his enemies and variables laid bare on the table. The faster he dealt with the woman, the sooner he could permanently have that looming threat removed from the back of his mind.

The most efficient method, of course, would be to find her and confront her directly to see if she knew the young elf. But obviously Ulrich immediately dismissed the idea. It was far too straightforward, too suspicious. Seeking her out to ask about a girl she supposedly did not know could easily backfire, inadvertently drawing her attention to Ceres and igniting an interest she did not yet possess.

Besides, if it could be avoided, Ulrich preferred not to deal with that particular woman at all. She was a dangerous, unpredictable variable he was perfectly content to leave alone.

Instead, he focused his energy on his new charge.

Ulrich had settled into a change of routine at the unexpected appearance of Ceres in it. Not every day, but precisely on the mornings he rode out to clear a Den of Magical Beasts, he would follow the work by riding directly to the secluded manor he had provided for Ceres and Mark. He was honoring his promise to study the Thornbreath and find a cure.

The word ’study’, however, had initially terrified the young half-elf. Despite Ulrich’s cold assurances that he would do her no harm, Ceres had been nervous during his first visit. Her mind had conjured horrific images of the ruthless Count laying her out on a steel table, slicing her flesh open with silver instruments to examine the corrupted roots inside her chest. But the reality had proven to be different.

Suddenly, the sharp chime of the manor’s doorbell echoed through the quiet halls.

Ceres, who had been sitting in the plush armchair of the grand living room, shot to her feet as if the cushion had suddenly caught fire. She scrambled across the wooden floorboards, her heart hammering against her ribs as she hurried toward the front door.

She glanced at the grandfather clock ticking in the corner. It was exactly ten in the morning. That was the precise hour the Count always arrived.

Not that it could be anyone else. No one in the bustling streets of New Ruben knew they lived in this quiet, luxurious estate, and Ulrich was their only visitor. Over the past week, he had come to see her exactly twice, always striking the door at ten o’clock sharp. This would be his third visit.

Ceres still didn’t fully understand the rhythm of his schedule, which was only natural. She had no way of knowing that Ulrich only visited on the days he went out to bathe his sword in the blood of magical beasts. On the other days of the week, when he remained within the walls of the Rubenhart Estate, focusing on physical conditioning in his courtyard, he did not come.

It was the most efficient routine Ulrich had chosen for himself, to keep both his body and senses always on edge and active.

Since Mark had stepped out early to visit the local market, Ceres was forced to act alone.

She knew it wasn’t her grandfather ringing the bell; Mark carried his own key. That meant it was the Count.

Ceres approached the door hesitantly, her bare feet silent on the woven runner. She stood a few paces away, her hands wringing together, trying to summon the nerve to reach for the handle.

Suddenly, the sharp chime of the doorbell rang out a second time. Ceres nearly jumped out of her skin. It seemed Count Rubenhart was already losing his patience.

Gathering whatever fragile scraps of courage she possessed, she rushed forward, fumbled slightly with the lock, and swung the door open.

Slowly raising her gaze, she found Ulrich standing on the threshold. As always, he was towering and imposing, exuding a presence that was simultaneously intimidating and noble. He still wore his dark riding coat, though she could smell the faint, coppery tang of water and dried blood clinging to the fabric.

"When I ring the bell, I expect an immediate answer," Ulrich said, staring down at her.

"Yes..." Ceres nodded meekly, shrinking back just a fraction.

In truth, Ulrich had not meant to frighten her. But after spending three hours carving through a Den of Magical Beasts, his mental endurance was frayed to a thin wire. He was impatient, exhausted, and running on adrenaline. Moreover, standing on the stoop of the quiet manor without an immediate answer had triggered a spike of unease.

By altering Ceres’s fate and pulling her under his wing, he had strongly deviated from the novel’s story once again. Since the original book had only started when Ceres was seventeen, already entrenched at the Academy, Ulrich had no idea what hidden dangers or enemies Ceres might have faced in the years prior.

Much like his unforeseen encounter with Libra and their unexpected interest in the witch sisters, there could be countless variables lurking in the shadows that he was blind to concerning Ceres. His sudden paranoia when the door remained shut was not anger; it was just caution.

Hearing Ceres’s soft, submissive mutter, Ulrich’s tense shoulders dropped a fraction of an inch. He stepped across the threshold, allowing Ceres to quickly step aside and give him a wide berth.

She pushed the door shut, sliding the locks back into place with a click. As the silence of the place settled around them, Ceres felt her heart thumping against her ribs. She was alone in the house with him.

It wasn’t exactly terror she felt, or perhaps it was a very small sliver of it, but mostly, it was an overwhelming nervousness. She knew exactly who was standing in her hallway.

Ulrich Van Rubenhart.

She stared at his broad back with her heterochromatic eyes, watching him unfasten the clasps of his coat. There was no way anyone living within the borders of Skargardia could be ignorant of that name. She had spent the last few years hearing the whispered, bloody tales. He was known as a ruthless, cold-hearted young lord, cut from the exact same merciless cloth as the father who had burned countless Witches at the stake.

But beyond his reputation as a butcher of Witches, he was also famously known as a prodigy, a genius who had unfortunately blossomed a shattered mana core, rendering him magically crippled.

Yet, as Ceres remembered the ease with which he had slaughtered his way through the beast den just days ago, she found herself doubting those rumors.

"Where is he?" Ulrich asked, his crimson eyes sweeping the empty living place of the mansion.

He was looking for Mark. Usually, the very second Ulrich’s boots crossed the threshold, the old man would materialize from the shadows, stepping protectively in front of Ceres. Mark always made certain that the Count was never left alone with Ceres for even a fraction of a second. The old man’s absence was glaring, considering that.

"He went to the market," Ceres replied softly, keeping her hands clasped tightly in front of her.

Ulrich’s brow furrowed, a faint line of displeasure etching itself into his features.

He did not appreciate the old man leaving the girl completely unguarded. While the manor was nestled in a quiet district of New Ruben, it was still a property owned by the Rubenhart House. That fact alone was enough to draw curious, prying eyes, and inevitably, those eyes might belong to individuals with unsavory intentions.

Putting the risk of spies aside, the old man knew Ulrich’s schedule. There was always a high probability he would arrive exactly at this hour to check on the Thornbreath. Mark could have easily waited until the afternoon to run his errands in the city.

"Grandpa works this afternoon," Ceres blurted out, her voice slightly panicked. "So he could only go to the market this morning."

As if reading Ulrich’s mind, which was not particularly difficult, considering the way his crimson brow would always crease in a distinct, silent show of irritation, Ceres had rushed to offer an excuse for her grandfather’s absence.

Unfortunately for her, in her haste to defend Mark, she had let slip a piece of information that very much displeased the young lord.

"Works," Ulrich repeated. The word left his mouth stern and cold, and his red eyes narrowed dangerously as he focused his full attention on the girl.

Ceres’s mismatched eyes widened in sudden panic as she realized the blunder she had just made. She slapped a hand over her mouth, too late to catch the words.