But today wasn’t an ordinary day. After all that had happened—the fire, her mood soured from nearly burning to death—she wasn’t about to tolerate a poorly prepared meal.
Staring at Maya’s trembling eyes, she noticed the maid’s attempt to recover the situation as she hastily spoke, “If the food doesn’t suit your taste, I’ll bring something else.”
“You know that’s not what I mean.”
Beatrice picked up the round plate and threw it at Maya’s feet. The dish hit the floor with a loud crash, flipping over and spilling its contents. Among the red noodles were round objects that rolled out—a sight that made Maya’s face turn pale.
Her expression twisted, a mix of panic and anger. She seemed at a loss for words. Normally, it was one or two insects at most. Today, there were more than ten dead bugs, their soaked bodies glistening in the red sauce that spread across the floor.
“I-I’m sorry. They must have gotten in during cooking,” Maya stammered, her usual excuse spilling out in a shaky voice. The bugs lay scattered on the floor, their bodies drenched in sauce, while Maya’s face turned from pale to flushed red.
“Clean it up,” Beatrice ordered calmly.
Maya’s glare burned with resentment. She had an odd sense of duty—a belief that punishing Beatrice, who she saw as the source of the duchy’s misery, was her responsibility.
Why Maya felt that way was something Beatrice didn’t care to question. Even if she knew, she wouldn’t understand.
Sighing, Beatrice stood up. Despite how much the duchy disliked her, they had never explicitly ordered anyone to torment her. Everything Maya did to her—planting rats and bugs, ruining her belongings—was entirely of her own accord.
Leaving the mess behind, Beatrice walked out of the room. The cold air of the garden greeted her bare feet as she stepped outside.
A week had passed since the last snowfall. The ground was bare, the grass long dead, leaving the dirt frozen solid beneath her. Ignoring the chill, she sat under the estate’s largest tree, hugging her knees.
A white carriage rolled through the front gates. Likely the priest the duchess had summoned.
A devout woman, the duchess held private prayer meetings at the estate once a week, inviting a priest for family gatherings or personal counsel.
Most noble families attended public prayer meetings at the temple, but the Ember Duchy’s wealth afforded them the luxury of hosting private services. Generous donations helped secure such privileges, no doubt.
Of course, the prayer meetings had nothing to do with Beatrice. She was not considered part of the “family” and thus excluded from these events.
Beatrice let her thoughts drift.
She had lost track of how long it had been since her regressions began. The trigger was always her death.
In one life, she had died at thirty-two. In another, she had lived past seventy. She had experienced suicide and murder alike.
No matter how she died, she always awoke as her eighteen-year-old self on a January morning at nine o’clock.
During her first regression, she thought it was all a dream. When familiar events unfolded, she believed it was foresight. In that life, she lived a relatively ordinary existence until she was executed at twenty-three for murdering her husband—a man chosen by the family for her to marry.
It was only after she woke up again that she realized she was regressing.
During her second life, she fled the family and lived in a remote territory until her seventies.
By the third regression, she had confined herself to her bed. She couldn’t muster the will to do anything and simply lay there until she starved to death.
Each regression led to a different life, a different set of decisions. But the life immediately preceding this one had been filled with rage.
She had grown tired of the meaningless cycle of life and death. Fury bubbled up from deep within her, and she let it consume her. She killed anyone she wanted, indulging in destruction.
Her last life had been the life of a witch. She slaughtered indiscriminately, leaving a trail of blood in her wake. Eventually, her reputation as a “witch” spread beyond her lands, drawing the church’s holy knights to hunt her down.
In that life, she had done everything she wanted. She had killed everyone she wanted to kill. And yet, here she was, alive again, unsure of what to do next.
She had searched for ways to end her regression, combing through ancient tomes, sacred texts, and even forbidden magic books from foreign lands. But no matter how hard she looked, she found nothing.
There were only two places left that might hold answers: the imperial library’s hidden archives and the original scripture kept by the temple.
The imperial library supposedly housed unaltered historical records, free from embellishment or revision. Similarly, the original scripture was said to differ from the edited versions circulated among the faithful.
She had learned of these hidden truths through her studies of history and banned books. If she could access either of these places, perhaps she could find a way to end this cursed cycle.
But how could she get close to them? To access the library, she would need to marry into the imperial family. To see the original scripture, she would have to rise to a high-ranking position in the church—a feat impossible for a woman, as only men could become high priests.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a voice.
“It’s cold out here.”
“Is it?” she replied without looking up.
It seemed she had been too lost in her thoughts, as she hadn’t noticed the priest approaching until he was right in front of her.
The man, dressed in pristine white robes, was none other than Theodor Delman—a high-ranking priest from the imperial capital’s Grand Temple, and a familiar visitor to the duchy, as he came once a week at the duchess’s request.
“Do you have something weighing on your mind?”
“How many people in the world live without worries?”
“That’s true, but…”
A troubled smile spread across his neat, fair face framed by pale blonde hair. Now that she thought about it, it had been quite a while since she had spoken to him directly. Of course, it was only in her past lives—this was the first time they had exchanged words in this one. To him, she was likely just the illegitimate daughter of the duchy, an isolated girl who had never stepped foot in high society despite being eighteen.
Theodor quietly knelt on one knee in front of her.
“There aren’t many people who would come out barefoot on such a cold day unless they had serious worries.”
“My maids hid my slippers, that’s all,” she replied.
Theodor’s expression subtly twisted at her words.
“The maids hid your slippers?”
“They’re probably somewhere. You’ve finished with the duchess, I assume?”
Her tone implied he should leave if he was done with his duties, but Theodor didn’t move. Instead, he stared at her for a moment, then removed his own shoes. She watched in silence as he gently took hold of her pale, freezing feet and slid his shoes onto them.
Unlike the other noblewomen of her station, Beatrice had larger feet to match her tall frame. Though the shoes were a bit loose, they fit well enough not to fall off.
“Are all priests this intrusive?”
“I’d call it kindness rather than intrusion, if you don’t mind,” he replied with a good-natured smile, undeterred by her dry and brusque remark.
Her golden eyes, empty of emotion, met his calm blue gaze. Having come this far, she decided to resolve a curiosity that had been lingering in her mind. She had nothing to lose, after all.
“I’ve heard the Grand Temple keeps the original scripture in its possession,” she said.
“Yes, it is kept in a chamber that only the High Priest and senior clerics can access.”
“They say its contents differ from the scriptures circulated throughout the empire.”
His previously warm smile faltered slightly, giving way to a faint frown.
“Some differences may exist due to the interpretation of the ancient language, but I wouldn’t say they’re completely different.”
A lie. Beatrice could tell. But she didn’t press the issue, merely blinking slowly and nodding as if she accepted his explanation.
The fact that the original scripture and its copies differed was not widely known. Of course, he wouldn’t admit it outright.
“So, did you manage to resolve the duchess’s concerns?” she asked, changing the subject.
“All I can offer are suggestions. No matter the problem, it’s not something another person can resolve for you.”
“And what was her concern?”
“It wouldn’t be right for me to share the duchess’s private thoughts,” he replied firmly.
“How trustworthy.”
“Which is why, if you have concerns of your own, you shouldn’t hesitate to share them with me,” he said earnestly.
“Quite the silver tongue,” she remarked, her expression unchanging.
Beatrice considered confiding in him about her situation. Being dismissed as crazy wouldn’t bother her, nor would it matter if something went wrong—she could simply die and start over again.
But the thought of explaining her endless cycle of lives in detail felt exhausting. Instead, she decided to keep it brief.
“I can’t die,” she said.
“…Pardon?”
“No matter how many times I try, I can’t die.”
Theodor’s face shifted into an expression of confusion and concern, but Beatrice paid no mind as she continued.
“I want to die, but I can’t.”
Beatrice had spent a great deal of time pondering why she couldn’t die, forming countless hypotheses. The first was that she was being punished by the gods for her sins.
“Do you think it’s because of my sins? Could it be divine wrath?”
But the priest she had killed in her first life wasn’t even affiliated with the Grand Temple. He had merely run an orphanage as a front for embezzling funds. Could someone like that truly have been loved by the gods?
If not divine punishment, then perhaps it was a curse.
“Is it because I’ve caused so much misery for others?”
Beatrice wasn’t driven mad by the repetition of her lives; she had always been that way. She couldn’t see humans as beings like herself. Ending someone’s life, if necessary, was never a matter of hesitation for her.
Her nature had been clear even in the years when the late Duke Ember had devoted himself to her education. Unfortunately, his efforts had little effect.
If it wasn’t a curse, then perhaps the third possibility: she had an unknown purpose to fulfill.
“Could it be that I’m still alive because I have something I need to do? But I haven’t found anything like that. I doubt there’s anything in this world that requires me.”
She had even entertained the idea that she was born with a grand mission, like in those novels where the protagonist must save the empire or the world. But in the life where she had lived past seventy, neither the empire nor the world had faced any great calamity.
That left her fourth hypothesis: she was a demon.
Demons, according to scripture, could not be killed by human hands. Only divine power wielded by a priest could destroy them, and even then, they would eventually return to life.
Though this had little connection to her regression, the inability to die felt similar enough to merit consideration. Now that she thought about it, she had never died from divine power.
The thought struck her suddenly, and she grabbed Theodor’s hands tightly.
“Come to think of it, priests have the power to take a life painlessly, don’t they?”
That power wasn’t something used lightly. It was reserved for those suffering from incurable diseases who could no longer endure their pain. Even then, it required a lengthy approval process and could only be performed by senior clerics.
“I don’t want to suffer anymore,” she said.
She still shuddered at the memory of being struck five times at the guillotine because her neck wouldn’t sever cleanly. Burning to death wasn’t much better.
“Would you use that power on me? I’ll compensate you, of course…”
“No, no, Lady Beatrice, please calm down,” Theodor interrupted, cutting her off.
Beatrice fell silent and stared at him. His composed face, now marred by an inexplicable mix of confusion, sorrow, and anger, puzzled her.
Had she said too much? Priests were kind but often prideful—perhaps she had offended him. She decided to listen.
“That power isn’t something I can use freely, and it wouldn’t be approved unless you were terminally ill,” he explained, his tone firm.
“So you’re saying you can’t use it on me?”
“That’s correct. Please, don’t entertain such thoughts.”
Of course, she had expected as much. Beatrice stood, making no effort to hide her disappointment.
She hadn’t truly expected him to grant her request, but it was still frustrating. Maybe she should try to contract an incurable illness instead.
“I see. Thank you for listening. I’ve taken up enough of your time, so you should leave now. I’ll return your shoes on your next visit.”
As she walked away, awkward in his oversized shoes, Theodor remained silent, his gaze fixed on her retreating figure. Beatrice didn’t notice the weight of his lingering stare.
* * *
Agatha Ember, the Duchess of the Ember family, had a small dilemma. It wasn’t about her two sons; they were thriving. Her eldest had successfully inherited the title and was managing the estates and businesses smoothly. Her youngest, though still young, had proven himself and joined the Imperial Knights. One might wonder what could trouble her when her children were doing so well. The answer lay with her third child—her husband’s illegitimate daughter, Beatrice.
When her husband had returned after his two-year disappearance, she had been overjoyed. Unlike many noble couples, theirs had been a genuine marriage of love. She had greeted him with tears of happiness—until she saw the small child in his arms. That child had been her undoing.
The sight of her husband holding the daughter he had fathered with another woman during his absence was a betrayal that cut deeply. Yet, she told herself, the child was blameless. With that knowledge, she resolved to raise her properly, though she never managed to treat her warmly.
Agatha prided herself on having provided the girl with all she needed, despite the emotional distance between them. A less generous stepmother would have cast her out the moment her husband passed away. Agatha had kept her in the family and was even contemplating her future. She thought herself a reasonably good stepmother, though not without faults.
Beatrice was now eighteen years old. Most noble girls would have made their debut in society at seventeen, but Beatrice had shown no interest in attending her debutante ball, nor had she taken any steps toward entering high society. Agatha, who only saw the girl on rare occasions, didn’t press the issue. She wasn’t inclined to force something that wasn’t wanted.
But the time had come to make a decision. Should Beatrice remain in the family estate, or should she be formally introduced to society and married off?
A sigh escaped Agatha’s lips. She knew the truth: she resented the girl. At the duke’s funeral, when her young stepdaughter had shown no trace of grief, Agatha had felt a visceral anger that she couldn’t shake. Their already strained relationship had worsened after that, making every interaction fraught with guilt and frustration.
Perhaps this dilemma about Beatrice’s future was her way of hastening the resolution to a relationship she found unbearable.
Most noble girls were engaged in their late teens and married in their early twenties, so finding a suitable match for Beatrice wouldn’t raise any eyebrows. When she sought advice from trusted noblewomen and her own mother, they had assured her she had done enough. “You’ve been kind to a child who isn’t even your own,” they’d said. “Finding her a good match would be more than enough.”
Those words, though self-serving, gave her some comfort. Even so, she had brought her worries to the family’s priest, Theodor, who had been tending to the family’s spiritual needs for years.
Theodor, ever kind, had suggested asking Beatrice directly about her wishes. But Agatha hesitated. Beatrice had a knack for unsettling people, and she doubted any response from her would be satisfactory.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door.
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