บททั้งหมดของ The Missing Daughter of House Lundren Returns as a Regressor: บทที่ 11 - บทที่ 20

Sylvia jolted awake, drenched in sticky cold sweat. Her throat felt dry and scratchy, like she’d been screaming. Someone banged on her door three times. It opened to reveal Shote holding a single candle, its light casting a pale yellow over the dark storage room that smelled thickly of dust, mold, and spices. “Sleeping in, eh?” he said in a hoarse voice, then began coughing harshly. “You look as pale as a sheet there, girl. He-he-he. Did ya have a nightmare?” Her blood ran as cold as frost. “Hmph. I’ll let you off the hook today, but I better not catch ya slacking!” he said and then slammed the door shut. “What?” Sylvia froze in place, head reeling. “This … happened … before,” she whispered through cracked lips. Her shaking arm reached for the rag covering her, pulled it back, and there it was—the golden pocket watch that belonged to Lord Marcus. In the next moments, Sylvia trembled. She hugged her knees close to her chest as if to hide from the world. Five o’clock. The ti

“Hm-m.” His wordless response had Sylvia’s stomach twisting. The pressure from earlier suddenly increased, making breathing even more difficult than before. Her breath faltered, but she fought to keep her feet planted firmly and her composure maintained. ‘This reminds me of the old times. You used to call me into your office and not say a word for what seemed like hours.’ ‘It unnerved me so, Your Grace.’ ‘Did you enjoy watching me prattle about useless things knowing I was afraid I’d displeased you?’ Sylvia bit her lower lip to keep herself from grinning. In a battle of nerves, the first to speak loses, and she wasn’t about to say another thing until then. The two stared at each other for some time, the conversation having turned into a lull. ‘This pressure feels like it wants to kill me.’ As the seconds passed, Sylvia felt like her knees would buckle. Her body had heated up despite only standing in one spot since she had entered the room, and sweat had begun to accumulate on

Rain sprayed into the room through the half-open door, wetting the boxes of supplies. Sylvia stood before a young boy about the age of ten, who was lying on the ground soaked in rain and bleeding out a puddle of red. His blonde hair glinted in the firelight, and the only sign of life coming from him was the shallow gasps of breath through the involuntary workings of his lungs. Her grip on the candle tightened. ‘You’re finally here, Alec.’ The source of a lifetime’s worth of suffering and humiliation and the man who betrayed her in the end—the Duke Alec of House Winston—was conveniently dying before her. However, he wasn’t a man yet. He was a mere child, like her. Melted wax dripped onto the box. When enough had pooled, Sylvia stuck the candle in place before closing the back door. A sudden gust of wind sprayed rain over her, which she wiped off with her bare hands. In this small storage room, where Sylvia and a bleeding young lord were alone, a grin made its way onto her fa

The young lord stared at her and the people behind her with incredulous eyes. He patted his chest, the rip in his clothing the lingering proof of last night’s attack. “You’re a noble, aren’t you?” she continued. “It isn’t safe for a young lord to stay here. You should leave right away.” Sylvia offered the neatly folded cloak. “Please take this. If you go out there looking like that, you’ll stand out. It’s like begging to be kidnapped, young master.” The young lord’s gaze shifted between Sylvia’s face and the cloak. Then, sighing, he resigned to accepting her impertinence. “Then, excuse me,” she said as she fixed the cloak around his shoulders, tying the drawstring at the base of his neck. In such proximity, Sylvia dared not raise her head and focused on the task. “Where am I? Since you saved me, I’ll waive your bold rudeness against me.” “Huh? This punk—” Sylvia gave her a look. Firgo, who looked like he was about to say something as well, shut his mouth. She rose to her feet,

“You little bitch!”“Come back here!”“Wh-where do-do you think—”“Where do you think you’re going, huh?”“Look! That brat must be the noble!”Sylvia, who had lived through a lifetime, knew the best to do in this situation—run away as far as possible to where they wouldn’t be able to catch a glimpse of her shadow. But the child in this life, who had experienced the triplets’ violence for talking back and resisting, remembered their strength and the pain unbridled anger imparted with every blow.This child’s body, skinny and worked to the bone, remembered those memories and froze on the spot.Even so, the child’s heart, tempered by the children of the slums and the many adults who raised her in their own ways, beat with fury from the injustice the child suffered.Ba-dump. Ba-dump. Ba-dump.Her stomach buzzed.