Chapter 360
Behind a plain wooden door, the sound of a handle turning could be heard carefully, slowly, as though afraid of disturbing the sleeping air.
The door opened not with a shove, but with an almost soundless slide, and from behind it emerged a girl.
Her fresh green hair, like dew-kissed grass in the early morning, cascaded softly over her shoulders, becoming the only living color in the dull palette around her.
Her face was pale, brushed by the dim corridor lights, revealing fine lines of fatigue and a deeply rooted vigilance, like a small animal accustomed to hearing the distant footsteps of predators.
The dress she wore fell near her calves, a simple silhouette deliberately chosen not to attract attention.
The pale cream tone blended with a light gray shawl draped over her shoulders, creating a blurred and forgettable impression, as if she were trying to merge with the walls and shadows.
The cut of her clothing was loose yet neat, offering no hint of the form beneath it, only suggesting a desire to be unseen, to vanish from the watchful eyes she felt always followed her, whether real or imagined.
The milk-brown knitted cardigan layered over it was not merely for warmth, but a shield, a thin fabric fortress against the coldness of the world she faced.
Every detail of her appearance spoke of preparation for a journey, or more precisely, a forced unpreparedness.
The grayish-blue flat shoes she wore were tightly fastened, designed for silent steps, for gliding along the corridor's edge without attracting listening ears.
There were no glittering ornaments, only a simple hair ribbon holding part of her green locks, a small unbranded brooch pinned to her cardigan, and slightly worn buttons at her wrists.
Those small items were the only acknowledgments of her stiffness, silent clues that behind this carefully constructed disguise was an individual with memories and preferences still struggling to endure.
She stood at the threshold for several long seconds, inhaling the cold, sterile air of the corridor.
Her eyes, green like the deep sea, swept her surroundings carefully, scanning every corner and every shifting shadow.
Her body was tense like a drawn string, ready to vibrate at the slightest touch of danger.
This was a moment of transition, a pause between the world of her room that might still hold fragments of dreams and the reality of the corridor that carried the destiny arranged by others.
Then, with a slow breath she held tight, the green-haired girl stepped forward, leaving the fragile safety of her room and entering the arena whose guards had been tightened by the Chairman.
"Of all the valuable lessons taught at Star Academy—magic, diplomacy, strategy, statecraft—why did you choose swordsmanship, a skill that is utterly useless?!"
The sound of a fist striking flesh and bone echoed dully in the silent corridor, an eruption of violence that shattered the mask of morning calm.
Erietta staggered backward, her light body nearly thrown off balance before she steadied herself, her hand reflexively pressing against her left cheek, which had begun to burn and throb with pain.
A sharp sting spread, followed by a faint metallic taste on her tongue where the inside of her cheek had struck her teeth.
A spark of burning anger and humiliation flashed in her green eyes, yet through harsh training she managed to suppress it, burying the flame beneath an empty gaze she had polished for years before her family's overseers.
The subordinate—a broad-shouldered man with a face creased by hatred and superiority—stood too close, his heavy breath nearly touching Erietta's face.
His fury was not merely about the ordinary contents of her suitcase, but about something deeper he had found hidden among folds of clothing and personal belongings.
It was a choice, a deviation from the path predetermined for her.
His shout crystallized an accusation long hanging in the air, a mocking rhetorical question about why a daughter of the Bathee family, offered lessons in etiquette, economics, politics, and strategy at Star Academy, would instead spend her time on something crude and sweat-soaked like swordsmanship.
"Do not dare look at me with that pathetic gaze of yours!"
Hooooh!
"An illegitimate child has no right to direct her eyes toward anyone of the Bathee family!"
Fiih!
Fiih!!
"Your very touch is contamination. Hurry, compose yourself and follow orders. Do not make us wait any longer."
The shout still hung in the air, a coarse vibration filling the space between them.
Erietta remained silent, her hand still pressed to her swelling left cheek, her green eyes gazing at the subordinate with a deeply mournful expression, a portrait of pain and confusion too sincere to be feigned.
Yet that look, rather than softening him, became fuel for his ignited rage.
In his eyes, the princess's sorrow was a revolting weakness, an acknowledgment of her illegitimate status, and therefore something deserving of total destruction.
Without warning, the second punch flew.
Harder, more intent on humiliation than mere punishment.
The blow struck Erietta's right cheek with a denser sound, snapping her head sideways and forcing her a step back.
Her balance nearly failed as the world spun briefly in a white flash of compounded pain.
The sting on her left cheek had not faded, and now a fresh burning pulse joined it, making her face feel as though it were burning and numb at once.
She suppressed the groan that threatened to escape, forcing it into a short, stifled hiss in her throat.
The man sneered, observing his handiwork with cold satisfaction.
His words poured out like venom, sharp and intended to wound deeper than any physical strike.
He called Erietta something unworthy even of his gaze, a stain, an illegitimate child whose very existence was an insult to the purity of the Bathee bloodline.
A wave of genuine disgust radiated from every pore of his body, a hatred indoctrinated and fully believed.
His next gesture made it clearer—he shook his right hand, the one that had just struck her, as though cleansing himself of contamination, of contact with something unclean and unwanted.
His expression suggested he had just touched filth, a final insult sharper than the punch itself.
'When will this end? Every time I return… it is always like this. Will my life remain this way forever?'
"From this moment on, Erietta Bathee, you are under our supervision."
"Every step, every glance, every breath you take will be monitored."
"Do not attempt anything that has not been ordered."
A long sigh escaped Erietta's lips, an exhale carrying years of weight that felt like stone upon her chest.
Her cold fingertips carefully touched the heated skin of both cheeks, feeling the throbbing pain that stood as physical proof of a cycle of violence that had never truly broken.
In her barely audible murmur, an old and weary question slipped out—a hopeless prayer directed at the high corridor ceiling, asking when all of this would finally end.
To be continued…