Nusi's hesitation hung palpably in the air as she lingered outside the room, her mind a battleground of indecision. Why did she feel this inexplicable urge to enter? Was it a latent desire to be of service, or was there something else at play, something unnameable that tugged at her spirit? One inner voice counseled her with a soothing tone of assistance, suggesting that her intervention might be the salve he needed. Yet, another voice, sharp with the sting of reason, insisted he required no help, imploring her to resist the inexplicable pull of the room. Despite the cacophony of internal debate, her resolve wavered, but her steps did not; she found herself inexorably drawn to the threshold, as if by some unseen force.
Sequestered within the confines of that room, Armad grappled with the gravity of his predicament. The pills, once a mere medicinal aid, had become his undoing. The initial 300 had been justifiable; they were the antidote to his skin's roughened, almost draconian texture. But his anxiety, fueled by the drastic changes, had overridden his common sense, pushing him to imbibe far beyond the recommended dosage.
It was laughable to think that the sweetness of the pills could have spurred such indulgence, but the truth was much darker—Armad was in the grips of desperation.
Now, with an additional 400 pills coursing through him, his skin had undergone a complete metamorphosis.
The blackness that was his birthright, a proud emblem of the Wilberforce lineage, had been eclipsed by an unnatural pallor. He was a vision of stark white, reminiscent of an albino, yet his skin bore an unearthly beauty that outshone the celebrated females of the Nara tribe.
The Nara was home to a princess, Lesina Natingele, whose beauty was extolled in songs and stories far and wide. Armad's memory of her was clear, as she had once graced his father's court with her presence. Yet now, as he beheld his reflection, his skin's whiteness and luminance surpassed even that of Princess Lesina. Rumors had long circulated that the Nara women possessed cultivation skills to obscure their allure, a practice unheard of anywhere else in the world.
The consensus among the nations was firm—if the women of Nara ever chose to abandon their self-imposed restraints and reveal their true beauty, the resulting chaos would be catastrophic. Kings might fall, empires could crumble, and the body count would surely exceed the digits of a single hand. And yet, in this most bizarre of turns, Armad, a man of Wilberforce descent, found himself in possession of a beauty that, in his eyes, eclipsed theirs.
This revelation, however, was far from welcome. To him, it was nothing short of a disaster, a perverse and epic twist of fate.
Armad brooded over his new visage, a complexion so starkly white that it could lead to whispers of illegitimacy within his bloodline. No member of the Wilberforce clan would ever rejoice at the loss of their defining dark skin, a trait that had symbolized their reign and distinction throughout history. His skin, once a badge of honor, had turned into a source of ridicule and alienation. The irony was not lost on him; fate had cruelly answered his fears of crocodile-like roughness with a transformation that left him too white, too beautiful, and utterly estranged from the heritage that had once been his greatest pride.
As Armad was lost in a labyrinth of his thoughts and tumult of regret and sorrow. It was in this moment of deep reflection that the sound of the door echoed, a soft and unanticipated intrusion. Confusion furrowed his brow, for he had sealed the room himself, yet now it swung ajar, admitting an unexpected visitor. As he lifted his gaze, a surge of anger rose within him, ready to lash out at the unwelcome intrusion.
But the sight that met his eyes tempered his fury like a sudden calm after a storm. Standing on the threshold was Nusi, the very woman the system had confided to him was not of this world but another, a fellow transmigrant like himself.
“Enter, since you’ve taken the liberty already,” Armad spoke, his voice a controlled blend of irritation and restraint. His face remained an impassive mask, belying the storm of emotions brewing within.
Nusi trembled slightly as she crossed the threshold, fully aware of the breach of etiquette she had committed. She had dared to open his door without seeking permission, to witness him in a state of vulnerability. The gravity of her error weighed on her, and she steeled herself for whatever punishment he might deem just.
She approached Armad with hesitant steps, then dropped to one knee, her voice a whisper of submission. “I plead for your mercy, Your Highness.”
Armad remained silent for a long moment, his mind racing with unvoiced thoughts. Finally, he broke the silence with a question, “What reason do you have for coming here?”
“Your Highness, I believed that... perhaps... you could need some assistance,” Nusi offered, her words trailing off into uncertainty.
Armad was taken aback, his mouth agape in disbelief. The very idea that he, of all people, might require help from a being of ki condensation level of cultivation seemed absurd to him.
He silently chastised himself, thinking that Nusi could have offered a simpler reason for her visit, such as a desire to see him after a prolonged absence. Any other justification seemed beyond his willingness to accept.
After a momentary pause, Armad’s curiosity got the better of him, and he turned the conversation into a more personal matter. “Tell me, what is your impression of my appearance? Have you ever encountered someone as beautiful as I am?” The words escaped him before he could ponder their intent – was he seeking validation or was he merely indulging in self-derision?
As Nusi contemplated his question, she found herself at a loss for words. In the entirety of her existence, which spanned two distinct timeframes she had never been in the presence of such magnificence.
Stolen novel; please report.
Even the persons who never get old like Prince Nazara in her old life paled in comparison to the man before her. She couldn’t help but question whether any mortal could truly embody such beauty, or if Armad somehow descended from the mythical, celestial beings known as the white demons.
Seeing her awestruck and speechless,
Armad’s impatience flared, and he abruptly issued a command that was as much a punishment as it was a task. “I require meat. Go forth and hunt for me – I demand at least twenty Demonic-lions. How you secure them is of no concern to me.”
Internally, Armad justified this impossible demand. Only by consuming the flesh of the formidable demonic lions could he create the potent elixirs necessary to enhance his skin, thereby reclaiming the distinctive hue of the Wilberforce tribesmen. However, he was acutely aware that Nusi, with her current level of ki condensation in cultivation, stood no chance against even the youngest of the demonic lions. The task he set before her was a reflection of his own insulted pride; her gaze had inadvertently suggested that his current guise outshone the inherent, robust beauty of his tribesmen. In response to what he perceived as an affront, Armad decided on this particularly harsh challenge as her penance.
The lady remained on her knee, her heart pounding with an anxious rhythm. She was frozen in place, silently praying for the prince to reveal his orders as mere kidding, that he had no true intention of sending her to partake in the perilous hunt.
Armad, with a weighty sigh that seemed to carry the burdens of his station, turned his gaze upon her. “Tell me the truth. Who are you, truly?” he inquired with a solemnity that seemed to make the very air in the room heavier.
The question struck the lady like a bolt, the very one she had been evading, the one she had feared would be asked. Being this close to the prince was a risk she had hoped to avoid, for she dreaded the possibility of him peering through her facade – of him recognizing that she was not the bona fide handmaiden she pretended to be, but instead, someone that had clandestinely taken possession of the maiden’s form.
“Your Highness, what do you mean?” she managed to ask, her voice barely concealing the tremor that betrayed her trepidation.
“I implore you to reveal your true identity,” Armand persisted, his piercing eyes locked onto hers. “Your candor, or lack thereof, will significantly influence what I will do next. Remember, even if I might not always discern a lie, the act of truth-telling remains the most prudent path before you. It is in your best interest to be forthright.”
Armand’s conviction was clear; he understood that the quickest way to earn this lady’s allegiance was to make her aware that he had insights into her actual identity. If she dared to embrace truthfulness, it would open the door for her to remain by his side, potentially as an ally or something more.
However, should she opt for deceit, it would only cement her status as untrustworthy, as someone who was not deserving of the opportunities he could bestow.
In his mind, Armad acknowledged that not all falsehoods were equal; a minor lie he could overlook, provided it was overshadowed by a greater amount of truth. He was not immune to the temptation of concealment, for he too understood the reticence that often accompanied the revelation of truth. In the realm of cultivation, fear was an ever-present shadow – a fear of the inexplicable, of powers that defied common understanding. When rumors of new and arcane cultivation skills surfaced, they were often greeted with apprehension and suspicion by the populace.
People naturally feared what they could not comprehend, and the unknown was frequently equated with malevolence or dark magic.
Several years prior, a tribe known by the name Shishiri, arose extraordinary cultivation skills. This method was unlike any other; it manifested in a most unusual physical transformation.
As a tribe member advanced to the ki condensation level of cultivation, an additional head would sprout. With each subsequent level achieved, more heads would appear—two heads at the foundation establishment level, three at the core formation level—until those who reached the esteemed Deva level would present with at least four heads.
This extraordinary aspect of their cultivation was a source of trepidation among the populace. The phenomenon was so alarming that, had King Ayrion’s council not intervened, the Shishiri might have faced extermination, such was the fear and mistrust surrounding unknown cultivation methods.
Armad was acutely aware of this sentiment and he was certain the enigmatic woman before him was equally cognizant.
In this era, even a revelation of a cultivation skill that can bridge more than one thousand years can be the subject of whisperers. Because it’s a time-traveling skill that predated even the Ururu’s dominion over the Wilberforce Empire, her situation dwarfed the unsettling abilities of the Shishiri, which will fill those who heard of it with a deeper, more primal dread. Armad, who pondered these matters, decided he could forgive minor deceptions from her; what he could not countenance was outright duplicity. He sought to unravel the enigma of her identity, as this was the first instance of their paths crossing in either of his lifetimes.
The circumstances of their transmigration were a mystery: Was it a result of their own doing, an act perpetrated by another, or the machinations of the system? Armad believed time would yield these answers. His immediate concern, however, was to win this woman over, beginning with the demonstration of his insight into her character.
Nusi approached the subject with trepidation, her voice laced with apprehension. “Your Highness, I am beset with unease regarding the truths
I am poised to reveal. The nature of your inquiries is unclear to me, yet I suspect that my forthcoming admissions may be disagreeable to your sensibilities.”
Without uttering a word, Armand nodded, an implicit signal granting her the freedom to continue. Despite this, she hesitated, perhaps still grappling with the gravity of her disclosure.
Armad, observing her reticence, softly posed his question, “Why is it that I discern within you something unfamiliar, something I have not encountered before?” His query was gentle, a strategic move to coax her into a sense of security, to draw out the secret he believed she harbored.
The lady, emboldened by his patient demeanor and the unusual honor of dining with royalty, interpreted these signs as an indication of his knowledge—or at least suspicion—of her concealed truth. If he was indeed oblivious to her secret, her confession might be met with a light-hearted dismissal, a promise to leave the past unspoken. If, on the other hand, he had already surmised the truth, her honesty might earn his trust and perhaps even his protection.
With her courage amassed and her decision made, she steeled herself to unveil the truth that she had kept hidden within the depths of her being. She drew a deep breath and prepared to speak, ready to face whatever consequences her revelations might bring.