Chapter 2 : The Blueprint of Ruin

The warmth of the reunion eventually faded, replaced by the hushed, urgent orders of the physician insisting on absolute quiet. The Viscount and Viscountess left reluctantly, promising to return at first light.

The heavy oak door clicked shut. The latch fell into place with a hollow thud.

Silence rushed back into the room, thick and suffocating.

Oliver—no, Arthur—lay back against the velvet pillows. The performance had completely drained him. Even the simple act of smiling and speaking had emptied his invisible stamina bar.

He stared at the canopy above, where the flickering candlelight cast restless, claw-like shadows.

“Status,” he whispered into the empty room.

The air remained still.

“System? Menu? Character sheet?”

He waited for the translucent blue box. He waited for the chime of a notification. He waited for a robotic voice to announce [Gamer’s Mind] or [Sacred Architecture System].

Nothing. Only the scratching of a dead branch against the windowpane and the distant, mournful howl of a wolf.

A cold stone settled in his gut.

“So that’s how it is,” he murmured, his throat clicking dryly. “No cheats. No golden finger. Just a poisoned body and a crumbling house.”

He exhaled a shaky breath. His hands trembled from profound physical weakness. If he wanted to survive a second assassination attempt, he couldn’t just lie here like a lamb waiting for the slaughter.

He needed to secure his perimeter.

If I ever want to see Elena again, he thought, his jaw clenching, I have to survive first.

He threw the heavy covers off. Cold air bit at his legs. They were terribly thin and pale, the muscles wasted away by poison and a week trapped in a coma.

He swung his legs over the side of the mattress.

One. Two. Three. He tried to stand, but his knees buckled instantly.

He crashed to the floor, tangling in the silk sheets, his shoulder slamming hard against the nightstand. The silver pitcher of water wobbled dangerously before settling with a heavy clang.

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The side door burst open. Layla, the maid, rushed in, her eyes wide with terror. She dropped the basin of warm towels she was carrying, ignoring the splash of water that soaked her apron and the floorboards.

“Master Oliver?!”

She was at his side in an instant, her grip surprisingly strong as she hauled him up. Pure panic flickered in her eyes.