* * *

“Tower Master.”

Startled, I trembled.

For someone who had just been grappling with a life-or-death dilemma, my reaction was pretty pathetic.

As usual, I didn’t respond.

Neither I nor the fake tower master, whose body I now inhabited, had ever made a habit of answering knocks.

So, after a moment, Cloden naturally opened the door to my room.

“It’s time to meet your guest.”

“Oh, a guest…?”

Ah, right. A guest had visited that first day.

The memory surfaced, and I instinctively replied, only to abruptly change my tone.

Stretching the final syllable awkwardly, I noticed Cloden raise an eyebrow slightly.

Undeterred, I doubled down.

“…Is it?”

“…Yes?”

Cloden’s expression turned odd, but at the same time, the gauge went up.

In my past life, when he’d told me about a guest, my response had been, “What? A guest?”

His bewildered look was worth my painstaking effort to raise the gauge.

Fortunately, Cloden pretended not to notice my strangeness.

“Sir Croiler has already arrived. Shall I send him in?”

Either the fake tower master had been notoriously unpredictable, or Cloden possessed extraordinary composure, because he simply moved on as if nothing had happened.

Today’s guest was Sir Serta Croiler.

When I nodded after rolling my eyes for a moment, Cloden bowed slightly and left.

A short while later, he returned, bringing in a man with a peculiar impression.

“Greetings to the master of the highest tower.”

With red hair, sharp upturned eyes, yellow irises, and a faintly mischievous smile, he exuded a subtly suspicious aura.

He was Sir Serta, the captain of the direct knights assigned to protect the tower master.

If someone lined up everyone I’d seen in this story and said, “Choose the hidden villain,” I would undoubtedly pick him.

But that was based solely on his looks and demeanor.

While Serta had the perfect face of a sinister mastermind, he was, in fact, a loyal and diligent knight who simply did his job.

At least, that’s how he’d appeared until the day I died.

Honest, incorruptible, and even willing to defend me—fake or not—by claiming I’d never done anything evil.

After Cloden prepared tea and refreshments and left, Serta immediately looked worried.

“Lately, I’ve heard you’ve been leaving your meals unfinished.”

It seemed that the fake Tower Master had been doing that recently. Honestly, even I couldn’t eat properly earlier when I suddenly ended up crawling on all fours.

“Well… I thought I’d gained a little weight…”

Anyone could tell that was a poor excuse, and Serta’s face clouded with even more concern.

In my past life, this would’ve been the point where I’d drop the honorifics, understanding my position.

But now, I had no idea what I was supposed to say.

It was awkward.

After all, how many people who suddenly find themselves in another body can confidently start saying, “Ho! Bring me water this instant!”?

There might be some, but I certainly wasn’t one of them.

I was, at best, an average person—no, even less outgoing than most.

Serta tilted his head slightly, then cautiously offered, “If you feel sluggish, I could spar with you.”

“What?”

I blurted out a response that felt too much like something the current me would say.

I probably blinked cluelessly because I didn’t fully understand what sparring with Serta entailed.

Fortunately, my gauge didn’t shift.

Sparring with Serta just because I felt a bit heavy?

That was like saying you want to communicate with animals and immediately climbing onto a rhino’s back. Serta was ruthless during sparring sessions.

At my refusal, Serta frowned in worry and said, “I understand that you prefer a sedentary lifestyle, Tower Master, but it’s important to move your body a little. If you dislike sparring, how about a walk with me?”

“…Later.”

Serta reluctantly nodded at my vague response.

That “later” would never come—or perhaps not “never,” since I might go for a walk someday.

Realizing I wouldn’t appreciate him pressing the topic further, Serta changed the subject.

“Some excellent fruits from the southern regions have arrived. I left them with Cloden.”

I gave a slight nod without a word of thanks, but Serta didn’t mind and continued.

“And the ancient texts you requested last time have all been procured and organized in the library. The librarian should have finished cataloging them, so you can send a servant anytime. If you need them now, I can fetch them for you.”

“That, too, later.”

“Understood.”

He nodded gently.

Despite being the Knight Captain, Serta’s role was closer to that of a nanny.

If Cloden was the one attending to me directly, Serta was responsible for obtaining what I requested or handling external affairs.

Perhaps it was because the body I inhabited didn’t actually need protection.

Protection… The body of Yuri Aieles, the Tower Master, had never required such a thing.

A magician who could, if they wished, blanket the world in thunder and lightning.

A being guaranteed power equal to the Emperor, without any obligations or responsibilities, simply by virtue of their overwhelming strength.

The pinnacle of all magicians.

Their king.

Someone who was less a person and more the embodiment of the Tower itself—a god, in a sense.

That was the Tower Master of the highest Tower.

Naturally, countless people gathered around them.

Some revered Yuri, some feared them, some sought to use them, and some tried to cling to them.

Most were sycophants, but a few, including Cloden and Serta, genuinely loved ‘Yuri’.

Just thinking about their expressions if they discovered I was a fake made my stomach churn.

“Make sure to take that walk at sunset, Tower Master. The garden has a slightly different look after yesterday’s pruning, and they say the sunset will be beautiful today.”

The stiff expression of betrayal from earlier overlapped with Serta’s current serene face.

I nodded with a complicated feeling.

Could they truly go on without realizing I wasn’t the real one?

Until the end?

I briefly considered the Fourth Prince’s intentions.

Why had he sought out the real Yuri?

Was it a means to ascend to the throne?

Or was it out of some sense of justice, unable to leave a fake Tower Master in place?

I hoped it was the former.

That would increase the chances of him letting me go quietly, according to my plan.

If it were the latter, that was fine too.

Someone with such a strong sense of justice would likely keep their promises.

Then, they’d naturally exchange me for the real Yuri, sparing me from ever seeing those betrayed expressions again.

That would be ideal…

“I’ll take my leave.”

I merely nodded until Serta exited.

As expected, I didn’t take that sunset walk.

The day of the ball was busy from morning onward with preparations.

People in this country, whether men or women, seemed to value their appearance highly.

Even if one didn’t, the servants around them wouldn’t let it slide.

I, too, spent the entire day in Cloden’s hands as he washed, combed, and groomed me.

Not that it did any good.

I looked at myself in the mirror.

My black, long, and perpetually messy hair, my gloomy yellow eyes shadowed beneath, and my dull expression.

My dark clothing only emphasized the overall raven-like gloom.

Despite wearing a freshly tailored, pristine outfit and ornate accessories for the occasion, none of it changed my vibe.

“Should I put up your hood, Tower Master?”

Cloden, standing behind me, asked with a slightly regretful expression.

Was there anything to ask about?

And what was there to regret?

Was he expecting me to show up bare-faced and scare everyone at the ball?

Naturally, I nodded. Cloden didn’t ask twice.

With careful hands, he pulled up the hood, obscuring my face.

I rose from my seat and checked my appearance.

A gaunt jawline and messy long hair peeked out from under the hood, paired with incongruous gold ornaments and long sleeves that covered my hands.

Combined with the velvet green clothing, the whole look was downright eerie.

Especially the hair. It was obviously unwieldy and unpleasant to look at.

It wasn’t excessively long, but it was unruly enough that I’d tried cutting it at first.

Neither scissors nor knives worked.

When I imbued scissors with magic to cut it, it worked—but the hair grew back immediately after being cut.

The sheer absurdity of it had me screaming.

Cloden had rushed in, alarmed, only to freeze at the sight of my scattered hair on the floor.

But I had been too flustered myself to worry about his reaction.

In the days leading up to the ball, I alternated between actions that depleted my gauge and those that replenished it.

It had taken time to get a feel for the kind of behavior my past self might’ve engaged in.

The gauge had dropped to 80%, and I’d felt a sense of crisis.

To recover, I’d tried cutting my hair again, despite knowing it wouldn’t work.

First, I used ordinary scissors and knives.

Then I remembered the trick.

Taking a deep breath, I grabbed a pair of scissors imbued with magic and chopped off a chunk of hair.

Predictably, the hair instantly grew back with a ‘whoosh’.

Even though I’d expected it, I couldn’t stop myself from yelling in frustration.

Just like in my past life, Cloden came rushing in, alarmed.

“Tower Master!”

* * *