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chapter 1
A chilling wind swept across the execution ground.
“Behead that traitor.”
The voice of the one she had once loved resounded in the square.
His face bore no trace of guilt. Looking at that expression, Ellen gave a hollow laugh.
“A traitor? Me?”
The emptiness was so overwhelming that no tears came.
She had worked harder for him than anyone. She had even pretended not to notice the death of a dear friend. And yet, to him, she was nothing but a traitor?
Grief. Pain. Rage. Regret.
An endless storm of despair.
“The one deserving of the name ‘traitor’ is not me, but you—who struck down the emperor you were sworn to serve!”
Ellen clenched her teeth so hard her jaw ached.
Had her tongue not been cut, she would have screamed until her throat tore.
A vile beast wearing human skin. A parricide without equal. Usurper—Gillian Crembel!
From his high seat in the distance, Gillian’s arrogant figure entered her vision.
That arrogance made her fury boil over.
Did he truly believe such deeds would ever be forgiven, simply because of his bloodline?
But in the end, Gillian Crembel had survived.
It was not he who stood at the brink of death, but they—Ellen and her family. Before her eyes were her father, weeping as if resigned to his fate, and her younger sibling, writhing in fear.
The executioner approached, sword gleaming with cold light.
The blade moved to carry out its assigned duty, and soon began to sever the heads of those she loved.
One.
Ah… Father.
Two.
El… my poor little brother…
The blade drawing nearer to her was etched in Ellen’s sight, its crimson sheen like her very soul pouring out as blood.
The executioner’s arm rose high—then vanished from her vision.
“Even in death, I will block your path. May only despair and sorrow fill your life…!”
The blade fell. Agonizing pain ripped through her body, severing thought itself.
Without even the mercy of a scream, Ellen Crembel’s life—stained by betrayal—came to an end.
Never knowing that time itself would begin anew.
<Chapter 1>
Blink, blink.
Ellen opened her eyes, staring blankly at the ceiling.
Blink, blink.
“…Ah.”
For a long time, she only blinked, trying to wake her hazy mind. At last, clarity returned, and she glanced around.
The room was familiar.
Unless someone had recreated it down to the last detail, this was the Duchess’s chamber in the Crembel estate—the very room she had once lived in.
“What… Why…?”
Just moments ago, she had been in prison.
She recalled her last memory. She had been dragged out, and then—
“…Hhh!”
Ellen gasped harshly, her hand flying to her neck.
Unless she had gone mad, or was trapped in an impossible dream—her throat had indeed been cut.
That grief. That rage.
Death, death, death.
With trembling hands, she touched from the nape of her neck, down her throat, to her pounding chest.
Intact.
Her gaze darted. Arms. Legs.
All unharmed.
Ellen stumbled forward. Her hurried step faltered, nearly toppling her.
Her ankle ached faintly, but even that pain felt unreal.
As if in a trance, she rose and stared ahead.
The mirror reflected her own image: whole limbs, her throat unbroken, her features unmarred by suffering.
It was Ellen herself.
Time passed before she could properly gather her thoughts.
She turned slowly, scanning the room.
The wallpaper, the curtains, the bedding, the shelves, the table, the carpet—everything was unmistakably hers.
This was, without a doubt, the Duchess’s chamber of the Crembel estate.
“What on earth…?”
How could such an absurd situation be real?
Her presence here was strange enough. That all her belongings were still in place was stranger still.
It was unthinkable that the possessions of a condemned traitor would be preserved untouched.
Besides, this estate was the domain of the very man who had ordered her execution.
Or rather—had once been.
Either way, nothing about this made sense.
Then her gaze fell on something.
“…That vase? But how…?”
It was the vase her father, Count Criant, had given her as a gift.
On hard days, she would rest her chin in her hand and stare at it absentmindedly. It was long gone, shattered years ago.
She remembered it vividly, for it had been precious to her.
“But that was broken…”
Memory of that day came back.
In her isolation, the vase had been a small comfort, reminding her of her family.
That was why—
When it fell and shattered, she had truly been unable to bear it.
Meals made with ingredients she had forbidden. Dresses ruined in careless washing.
“All my commands ignored.”
And still, she had endured it.
She was an unfamiliar mistress from outside. Gillian was too busy to care.
But then—
[“How careless must you be to break a vase sitting in the middle of the table, not even near a window?”]
[“I’m sorry, my lady!”]
[“Do you even know how many times you’ve said those words? This time, the matter will be dealt with severely.”]
[“My lady!”]
Then, as always, Gillian appeared, frowning.
[“What’s this noise?”]
[“…A servant made a mistake. I was questioning her.”]
[“I see a broken vase. Fetch a Triasan porcelain. That should be fitting.”]
[“But this is—”]
[“Not enough? Then choose whatever pleases you. But keep the noise down.”]
In the end, her authority as mistress had always been hollow. She could not even mete out punishment.
“…But that item, already gone back then… why is it here?”
Could it be?
Ellen swallowed hard.
Impossible. Ridiculous.
And yet, wasn’t her very existence now impossible already?
Her eyes scanned again, searching for answers.
A calendar.
It was open to February. She flipped to the front. The year: Imperial Year 767.
A diary she sometimes wrote in.
The last entry:
<January 28, 767. It snowed today. Though it snows often here, it rarely piles up. I always miss the sight. Our castle in winter was so beautiful…>
Stopped at January 767.
Letters exchanged with a friend bore the same date.
<…Ellen, don’t attend alone. Bring even your foolish cousin. Between close families, it’s not strange…>
Her friend’s familiar handwriting.
And her own reflection—visibly younger.
Piecing together every clue, Ellen reached her conclusion.
It was Imperial Year 767 again.
She had opened her eyes once more—in the spring of her twentieth year.
A miracle had happened, but nothing had changed.
The Crembel estate remained cold to her.
Maids came only when called, never of their own accord.
Today, she almost felt relieved by it, and collapsed back onto the bed with a bitter smile.
Perhaps this was her chance.
A second span of time, given unexpectedly.
She didn’t know why. What mattered was only the fact.
She had a future she could never accept. An enemy she could never forgive.
And now, she had been granted a second chance at it all.
She recalled the curse she had sworn at her death.
“I will give everything to bring you despair and sorrow.”
May he lose the throne, his honor, even his title as Duke.
May he know only ruin.
Fire sparked in Ellen’s eyes—like blazing flames, like the midday sun.
Her first step was clear. Only the method remained.
She whispered the word that made her heart race with anticipation.
Her father, Count Daniel Criant, would certainly object.
But though he hungered for power, he was also a father who had wished for his daughter’s happiness, grieving her parting.
Ellen recalled him, and made her decision.
This time, she would confront him head-on.
And if that failed, she would leave the estate to forge her path.
Now, she truly could do anything.
She rang the bell.
Click. A maid entered.
“What are your orders, my lady?”
Polite, but cold.
“Bring me water to wash with, and paper and pen.”
The maid bowed and left. Soon, the items arrived.
Ellen immediately began to write, scribbling with determination.
Gillian Crembel—who scorned the Criants but knew he needed their wealth.
This would be her last gift to him.
She signed her name with flourish, and spoke with satisfaction:
“Now then… shall we?”
She left her chamber with firm steps—so unlike when she had first awoken.
Bang!
The door burst open with a force unseen since Gillian had inherited the ducal seat.
The Duke of Crembel lifted his head slightly, eyes narrowing.
It was Ellen Crembel—his wife—who entered.
“…Have you lost your mind? Haven’t I told you to mind your manners?”
He looked back down at his papers, expecting her apology to follow.
But no such words came.
Instead, Ellen Crembel—the proof of their financial pact—took an action that stunned him.
“Of course I’m sane. I remember your lecture well enough.”
“What nonsense is this? Do you even realize you’re a member of the ducal family—”
Her blunt reply made him frown.
He was about to scold her further when she cut him off.
“…I don’t, and I don’t intend to.”
She strode forward, slapped a stack of papers onto his desk, and said:
“Here. Sign cleanly.”
At the top of the page, in bold: Divorce Agreement.
“You’ve gone mad,” Gillian muttered, dumbfounded.
The woman who had once gazed at him so longingly… asking for divorce?
He laughed bitterly. It was absurd.
To him, Ellen had always been the woman who craved his affection, who quieted at a mere glance from him.
But now, she had chosen to cast away the Crembel name itself.
“Well, if that’s how you see it, all the more reason you need this.”
She had lived one life already, endured failure, and faced death itself.
“And now, am I supposed to fear something like this?”
She chuckled softly, amazed at how insignificant Gillian now seemed.
His eyes widened.
Instead of her usual wounded pout, she mocked him with cold laughter.
A shock.
“Has something happened I don’t know about? People don’t change this quickly…”
But such mysteries could wait.
He looked at her like she was insane and said:
“…There’s much to correct. Go to your room and reflect. James!”
“Yes, master.”
“Take her away. A week of confinement.”
“Yes, master.”
Gillian dismissed her words entirely.
But Ellen remained calm.
This was her daily reality—predictable, unchanging.
“How absurd. Confinement? I think not.”
Her voice was soft, but clear.
“I have no wish to be part of this household. So, I shall leave myself.”
