A week had passed since I first arrived in this world.
The desperation that clung to me like a second skin had finally begun to peel away.
Each day had been devoted to refining my combat technique, pushing my body and mind to match the standards of this brutal world.
I didn't wear armour, but I didn't need to.
My coat, shirt, and trousers—imbued with layers of defensive and reinforcement runes—were more than enough to function as substitute battle gear.
The results spoke for themselves.
From D-rank to C-rank.
A small jump on paper, but a meaningful one to me.
That progress wasn't just mine, though. Damian had played a key part.
Like a second brain embedded in my soul, it stored every rune I needed, every formation I designed, and helped me cast them almost instantly.
Thanks to that, I was able to work around the weaknesses of rune magic.
The mansion had changed too.
Half of it had become a lab.
Stone counters, steel racks, glowing tubes of mana extract.
The materials I ordered had arrived quietly, smuggled in without even a flicker of attention—thanks to the spatial ring Lena had given me.
And then there was me.
The me in the mirror now had a body that belonged to a swordsman.
Toned arms, stable core, shoulders squared and posture sharp.
No longer sickly, no longer weak. I had sculpted my frame to match the life I was choosing to lead.
And on my face—glasses. Thin-framed, black, perfectly fitted. They weren't enchanted. Just… a habit.
A relic of who I was in my previous life. I wore them as both anchor and armour.
Still, not everything had changed.
No guests came. No knock on the door.
But I didn't mind.
The guild provided all the social interaction I needed.
A few companions there were friendly enough, and the regular grind of missions kept my mind sharp.
So, today, I decided to do something different.
"Damian", I said, settling into the workshop's chair, "let's run some ideas. I've been thinking—maybe we're focusing too much on functional power. We need efficiency."
But before Damian could reply, something strange happened.
I heard it.
The door opened.
I stood quickly, brows furrowing, hand instinctively moving near my spatial ring.
A voice followed—soft, nervous.
"M-Master Vancroft…?"
I stepped out from the workshop and into the hallway.
A maid stood there.
Dressed in the Lovecraft crest uniform, hair braided neatly, hands clutching her skirt so tightly her knuckles were white.
But what really struck me was the look on her face.
Fear.
It seems the changed mansion caused her to be afraid.
Her eyes widened when she saw me.
Likely shocked by the change in my appearance. I didn't blame her.
"...Yes?" I asked carefully.
"You've… been summoned to the main mansion," she stammered. "The Duke… your father… he wishes to see you."
I blinked.
Summoned?
That word didn't belong in the Lovecraft vocabulary—at least not when it came to me.
Even during grand ceremonies, banquets, or political events, I had never once been invited.
I was, after all, the stain. The failure. The unspoken embarrassment.
So… why now?
"What for?" I asked, narrowing my eyes.
"I… I— I wasn't told anything. I was just ordered to retrieve you."
The maid's voice trembled like she feared I might lash out.
I sighed, rubbing the bridge of my nose.
"Fine."
I didn't need to change. My current clothes were a hybrid of function and form—clean, sleek, and reinforced.
My sword rested comfortably within my ring. I had nothing to prepare.
The time for hiding had long passed.
I followed the maid through the gates of my dusty mansion.
Toward the main estate.
Toward my father.
And whatever reason he had to finally remember I existed.
***
The walk to the main mansion was quiet.
Even the breeze seemed to hold its breath as I followed the maid through the estate grounds, each step drawing closer to the source of this sudden summons.
The Lovecraft estate was grand, just like Vancroft memories showed it.
Towering spires crowned with enchanted crystal domes, windows that shimmered with spell protection, and walls polished to a shine that mocked the humble dust of my own mansion.
But behind the beauty was a coldness that always lingered—etched into the very stones.
The heavy door of the Lovecraft estate creaked open as I followed the maid down the familiar halls.
The distant scent of aged incense and polished stone lingered in the air—unchanged since the last time I stepped foot in this place.
Of course, it didn't take long before I saw her.
Standing at the corridor intersection, arms crossed and eyes gleaming with contempt, was my sister.
Dressed in an elegant black and violet gown that highlighted her noble lineage, she looked at me like I was a roach that had wandered in from the gutters.
"Well, well," she sneered. "Look who the rats dragged in. Still breathing, are you?"
I didn't respond. I simply kept walking, letting her voice slide off me like water on steel.
She clicked her tongue, stepping into my path.
"Maybe this time Father will finally strip you of whatever scrap of status you have left.
"Honestly, it's about time. A parasite like you doesn't deserve the Lovecraft name."
I met her gaze briefly. Cold. Empty. The kind of person who only saw worth in power and none in people.
I didn't take the bait. I walked past her in silence.
She scoffed behind me. "Coward."
Eventually, the maid led me to the main dining hall.
The door opened soundlessly to reveal him.
My father sat at the long obsidian dining table, dressed in noble black robes stitched with the sigils of his domain.
Long white hair framed a pale face and eyes like endless violet abysses—cold, calculating, ancient.
A half-finished meal floated in front of him, untouched save for a few bites.
On his fingers were rings etched with complex sigils, each humming faintly with condensed magical pressure.
The Archmage of Abyssal Enlightenment.
The only known Enlightened wielder of Abyss magic. Lovecraft, the master of the abyss.
I didn't sit. I didn't speak.
He didn't look at me, not at first. Only when he placed his fork down and raised his hand did a letter float toward me.
I recognised the seal before it even reached me.
The Acheron family crest.
My father's voice finally cut through the silence.
"The Acherons sent this two days ago. They requested the presence of our family at their upcoming celebration."
His eyes narrowed slightly.
"Apparently, their daughter Lena has taken a liking to one of her 'friends'."
He paused.
"You."
I blinked. "...What?"
My father finally turned to look at me fully.
"She requested you attend personally. No formal rejection will be sent from this house."
He gave me a once-over. "It seems you've gone ahead and done something strange."
I clenched the letter quietly in my hand, unsure if I should be concerned or amused.
I knew she was trouble.
My father leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping against the side of his glass.
The glow of the abyssal crystal chandelier reflected faintly in his eyes. His voice was calm, curious even.
"How on earth did you even manage to form a connection with the Acheron heiress?"
I met his gaze, unwavering. "Why does it matter to you?"
For a moment, there was only silence.
Then, he laughed.
It was quiet at first—soft and humourless. But then it grew, echoing off the black stone walls of the dining hall. And just as quickly, the room shifted.
A crushing weight fell upon me like a mountain of iron.
The obsidian table split down the centre with a sharp crack.
The chandelier above flickered and shattered, raining glass across the marble floor.
Silverware twisted, wine glasses exploded, and even the stones beneath my feet groaned from the pressure.
My knees hit the floor.
I gritted my teeth as an invisible hand gripped my chest. It felt like reality itself was pressing down on me.
[Warning]
[Multiple protection runes activated]
[Attempting to recalibrate mana layers for resilience]
Despite the pain, I managed a breath.
"Where", my father's voice thundered, "did you gain the audacity to speak to me like that, boy?"
I didn't answer. I couldn't—not immediately.
My limbs felt like they were being bent inwards, my magic circles trying to hold their form under the assault.
But then something shifted.
The pressure began to fade.
Slowly, I lifted my head and looked at him, sweat rolling down my neck, hands trembling slightly.
But I didn't collapse. I didn't fall unconscious. I endured.
He studied me in silence, the barest hint of intrigue behind his abyssal eyes. Then he spoke, tone flat again.
"Get ready. We're leaving in a minute."
He turned his gaze away, as if what just happened was no more significant than swatting away a fly.
I stood slowly, my legs still tense from the pressure.
My fingers curled into fists.
I exhaled deeply.
'That was good enough.'
I purposefully infuriated him in order to get him to act as a way to test my defensive rune.
'That was probably a 6th circle gravity spell.'
Thanks to that, I could tell what level I could handle head-on. It seems the money I used was worth it.
Now was the time to deal with another headache.