"Master, it's noon already," Abraham's voice came from outside the door.

Waking from his slumber, Aiden replied, "Thanks, Abraham. Tell the maids I'll have lunch in a minute."

Upon arriving to his room the day before, exhausted, he had fallen asleep the moment he hit the bed.

It had been an eventful day—being transmigrated, killing his uncle, and now having to deal with corrupt officials.

"Now's not the time to relax or get complacent. This is nothing more than a sandcastle—it can collapse at any moment," Aiden muttered to himself.

He knew better than anyone that yesterday's performance had been built on fragile ground. It was all just an act. There were no Emperor's Shadows, no Demon Lord conspiracy.

All his lies rested on the disbelief surrounding his uncle's death. It was so far-fetched that they had no choice but to believe it.

First, there was no way Aiden could have killed his uncle. His uncle was a rank 2 warrior, and Aiden—a useless human—lacked both the courage and skill to pull off such an act. So, the real culprit had to be someone else.

Second, there was no logical reason for Aiden to kill him. Even if there had been a power struggle, patricide was taboo. There was no motive.

But by framing his uncle as a subordinate of a Demon Lord and linking his death to the Emperor's assassins, everything made sense.

His confidence during the ordeal and his uncle's demise suddenly aligned.

Still, it could all fall apart at any moment. The moment anyone realized there were no shadow guards, or if they dug deeper into the Emperor's intentions, they would figure out the truth.

Aiden was the real killer.

"It's bought me some time to start my real plans," he whispered, a faint smile playing on his lips. "I'm unofficially the Marquis now, and even my money problems have been temporarily solved. Those cowards won't dare to be stingy with their donations."

But there was something nagging at him, something that could cost him his life.

"I still remember vividly how I killed him," he murmured, staring at his hands. The memory had bothered him since yesterday, but with more urgent matters to handle, he had pushed it to the back of his mind.

Aiden preferred to have control over everything, but this was different. It felt strange, as if the person who had killed his uncle wasn't quite him. Yet, at the same time, he knew it was undeniably him. It had to be.

Questions remained, but he trusted time would reveal the answers. Even if they didn't come, it didn't matter—he'd move on.

He stood, donning a white shirt from the wardrobe, then threw on a thick, luxurious coat before heading to the dining room.

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Abraham waited by the entrance, a polite smile on his face, though he avoided looking directly into Aiden's eyes.

Trying to impress his new master, Abraham beamed as he announced, "Master, lunch is served. We've prepared your favorite: Honey-Glazed Pork Belly and Butter-Soaked Bread Trenchers with Meat Gravy."

Aiden raised an eyebrow, perplexed. He didn't recall ever liking that sort of dish, but not wanting to seem suspicious, he said, "Well done, Abraham. I appreciate your thoughtfulness. Please, lead the way."

Abraham's smile grew wider, like a child praised by his parents.

As Aiden followed, his red eyes glowed faintly, never leaving Abraham's silhouette. The dining room was familiar yet distant—he knew he had grown up here, but the place stirred no fondness in him.

The table was laden with dishes—vegetables, meats, all meticulously prepared. Clearly, they had gone to great lengths.

Abraham pulled out the chair for Aiden, who sat at the head of the table. "I hope you enjoy the meal, Master."

Maids began to serve the food, and the rich aroma filled the room. Aiden's stomach growled, and he swallowed, anticipating the feast before him.

When everything was ready, Abraham approached with a wine bottle in hand, pouring it skillfully into Aiden's cup.

Aiden eyed the wine, recognizing its value. In these times, wine was a symbol of wealth and status, difficult to produce and even harder to come by.

Sensing his master's gaze, Abraham explained with a soft smile, "This wine has been aged for a hundred years, from the fallen kingdom of Artesia. The previous Master reserved it only for the most important occasions."

Aiden continued to watch the cup fill, outwardly calm, though internally he grimaced.

He was not fond of alcohol, especially considering the previous Aiden's behavior.

He hadn't eaten in two days, so hunger gnawed at him. His mouth watered as he gazed at the food.

The glistening pork belly, the soft bread soaked in gravy—it all looked exquisite.

His expectation mounted as he took a piece of the pork belly and brought it to his lips. The first bite... and then, nothing.

The taste, the richness, the flavor he was waiting for—it was completely absent. The food tasted like nothing.

Aiden's brow furrowed, his surprise almost making him choke. He spat out the food, instinctively reaching for the wine.

Abraham's eyes widened in shock. "Master, are you alright?" Concern filled his voice as he stood frozen, unsure of what to do.

Aiden didn't answer immediately. He lifted the cup and took a deep drink, hoping to wash away the strange sensation.

But again, there was nothing. The only thing he felt was the burn of alcohol sliding down his throat, harsh and empty.

His mind raced. Why... can't I taste anything? He clenched the cup, staring down into the dark red liquid. Not the food, not the wine... What's happening to me?

Aiden ate expecting a burst of flavors, but instead, it was like chewing on a piece of damp, flavorless cloth

Each bite was hollow, a mere texture without taste, like eating a carved piece of wood disguised as food.

He blinked in confusion, his stomach still tight with hunger but his mouth finding no pleasure in the act of eating.

Abraham stood there, his eyes wide with shock as he watched Aiden spit out the food.

For a moment, his face twisted in disbelief, and then, as if struck by a sudden realization, he snapped into action. "Chef! Chef! Get in here!" he bellowed, his voice echoing through the grand dining hall.

His tone was filled with fury, searching for an explanation, certain that something had gone terribly wrong in the preparation.

The clattering of kitchen staff could be heard rushing from the distance, but before Abraham's voice could rise any higher.

Aiden raised a calm hand, stopping him mid-outburst. "There's no need," Aiden said, his voice smooth yet firm, an air of quiet authority wrapping around his words. "Calm yourself, Abraham. The food is fine."

Abraham froze, his mouth still half-open, then quickly composed himself, nodding stiffly though his confusion lingered.

Despite the lack of taste, Aiden continued to eat. Each bite filled his stomach, but there was no joy in it.

No satisfaction. It felt like he was shoveling dirt into a hole—his hunger vanished, but the desire for something more remained untouched, hollow.

The meal became nothing more than a duty, something to fuel his body, but like a fire with no warmth, it left him cold inside.