Mira was confused. Hesitant.
She didn't understand why he suddenly wanted her close. The order made no sense. But the look in his eyes—the quiet, chilling smile—was enough to make her obey.
From the moment his fingers had closed around her throat, everything changed.
The way he'd spoken to Seraphina.
The way he ordered the carriage to leave the knight behind like he didn't care about consequences.
This wasn't the timid boy she had served all these years.
He was unpredictable.
And that terrified her.
So she moved. Slowly. Cautiously.
She sat beside him, stiff and straight, her posture perfect—but she left a gap between them.
Julien's brow twitched in annoyance. She hadn't understood his intentions at all.
He reached across and shut the carriage window with a soft clack.
Then, without a word, he slid toward her—closing the distance between them in one smooth motion.
Her body tensed. She flinched—not quite a recoil, but a startled jolt.
His right hand moved first.
It settled on her waist. His palm curved around the narrowest part of her body, near her hip. Fingers splayed, firm. Not merely touching, but holding—like a dancer ready to pull his partner into position.
Then the left followed—settling on her thigh. Not merely touching, but feeling. His palm pressed gently through the fabric, fingertips grazing in slow motion.
"Y-Yo… Young Mast—errr…"
Her voice caught. Soft. Low. Unsteady.
Then his hand on her waist tightened—not violently, but with quiet authority. A steady pull.
She gasped as her body slid closer, drawn toward him.
And before she could fully understand what was happening—
He lifted his hand from her thigh and pressed a finger to her lips.
"Shh…"
The whisper barely touched the air. But it silenced everything.
His eyes locked onto hers. Calm. Intent.
Their faces were close. Breath to breath.
If not for that single finger between them… their lips would have met.
Mira froze.
His breath was warm.
His presence overwhelming.
The Julien who had terrified her this morning now shimmered with something else. Something she couldn't name.
His voice, his nearness, that fingertip on her lips—it made her chest tighten. Made her heart pound in ways she had never felt.
Something bloomed inside her. Warmer. Heavier.
She had never felt this before. Not once.
Trained from a young age to serve. Disciplined. Dutiful. She'd never even had a crush. Never even dreamed of one.
And now here she was—shoulders trembling, breath catching, face flushed.
Julien's eyes lingered on her a moment longer. Then he pulled his finger away from her lips—lightly, as if savoring the feel of her breath against it.
The silence deepened.
His hand dropped.
Not back to her thigh.
But lower.
Sliding beneath the hem of her skirt.
Then he began to lift it.
Slowly. Deliberately.
Each inch revealed more of her pale thigh, where soft skin met the black band of her stockings. The fabric glided up her legs, catching slightly against the heat of her skin, rising higher with each breath she failed to control.
She exhaled—long, hot, unsteady.
The air inside the carriage shifted.
Thicker. Heavier. Like the heat had soaked into the cushions. Into her skin. Into her bones.
Julien reached the top of her stockings, where the black band hugged her thighs tight—just enough to leave faint marks in her flesh.
He paused.
His fingers brushed the bare skin just above that line. Delicate. Wandering.
Even with the softest pressure, his touch sank into her—enough to feel the yield of her thigh beneath his hand. The warmth of her. The pulse. The softness.
She shivered beneath his fingers.
Her legs shifted—just slightly. A subtle movement, thighs parting. Not by will, but reaction. Her body answered before her mind could understand.
He resumed.
The skirt rose again. Higher.
Her breath caught in her throat. Her hand twitched at her side—but she didn't stop him.
Her cheeks burned as he lifted the fabric up to her belly.
And then he stopped.
He didn't move for a moment.
He held the skirt there, his hand curled loosely around the gathered fabric. Exposing her.
His gaze dropped.
He stared.
Like he was etching the sight into memory.
The black undergarment beneath her was plain cotton—no lace, no ribbon. Modest. Clean.
And yet—
The way it hugged her made modesty feel like a lie.
The fabric clung like a second skin—tight enough to capture every soft rise, every subtle edge. Her slit pressed gently against it, forming a faint but unmistakable outline. The heat rising beneath the cotton made it all the more vivid.
Like a confession sealed in black cotton.
It shouldn't have looked so inviting.
So quietly obscene.
Mira's eyes flickered shut for a moment—just to breathe—but her breath came out wrong.
Hot. Shaky.
Her chest rose and fell in uneven rhythm.
She was flushed. Embarrassed. Completely exposed.
But she didn't move.
She couldn't.
Her thoughts had slipped out of reach—half of her mind blank with disbelief, the other half reeling from the overwhelming ache of feeling that reached her first time.
Her hands stayed at her sides, fingers curled tight.
Her thighs trembled, parted.
Her entire body felt like it was being unraveled, thread by thread.
Julien's eyes lingered.
Then—
His right hand moved—the one still curled around her waist. While his left held the skirt aloft, the other drifted lower. Unhurried.
His fingers slid down the center of the black cotton—straight over the shape of her lower lips.
The fabric hugged her tightly, revealing every soft curve. He could feel the warm flesh beneath, the tender parting—subtle, swollen, sensitive. A faint dampness met his touch through the cloth, warm and undeniable.
Her body stiffened. Breath caught. Her upper lips parted in silent shock.
Everything blurred—lost beneath the rush of heat. Her body followed his rhythm, surrendering inch by inch.
Then his fingers dipped further, reaching for the edge of the black cotton.
And just as he began to move it aside—
Knock. Knock.
The sound shattered the moment.
The carriage door shook—sudden, jarring. A sharp noise that snapped them both back to reality.
Julien's hand pulled away instinctively.
Mira jolted upright with a gasp, breath catching. Her hands flew down, yanking her skirt over her exposed thighs with clumsy urgency.
Julien's jaw clenched. His eyes narrowed.
He clicked his tongue—sharp. Irritated.
Annoyance twisted through him. He exhaled through his nose—hard. Slow. Like something inside was straining against its leash.
Then, from outside, a brisk, official voice called:
"Please show your family crest!"
Julien didn't move at first.
His gaze remained fixed on Mira—her flushed cheeks, her trembling posture, the rise and fall of her heavy breasts, barely contained beneath the fabric. The heat hadn't left her. It clung to her.
He could feel it too.
The moment—stolen. Interrupted.
His fingers flexed once, then curled into a loose fist.
Another knock followed—sharper this time. Impatient.
"Sir! Your crest!"
Julien's eyes flicked toward the door.
Then, with slow precision, he reached into the inner pocket of his coat and pulled out a small obsidian token—etched with gold, a black lion rearing over a shattered crown.
The sigil of House Rothvale.
He slid open the carriage window just enough to push the token through the gap.
A pause.
Then the guard outside inhaled, audibly. The next words came stiff, formal—his voice no longer brisk, but reverent. Careful.
"...Verified, my lord. You may pass."
The reins snapped. The wheels creaked.
The carriage surged forward, smooth and swift.
But inside—neither of them moved.
Mira sat frozen, hands clenched around her skirt, eyes fixed on the floor.
Julien leaned back into his seat, his gaze lingering on her for only a breath longer before shifting.
The silence between them stretched.
Long. Heavy.
Then he felt it—a faint ripple in the air. A fluctuation in the surrounding mana.
He cracked the window open.
Outside, the trees vanished behind a shimmer of pale blue. The road blurred. Space twisted, folding inward like a sheet of parchment set aflame.
They were inside a teleportation field.
"A portal?" he muttered.
Mira looked up, startled by his voice. "Y-Yes, Young Master. That's the teleportation gate leading to the Capital."
Julien's eyes narrowed. A shadow passed over his face.
Teleportation fields weren't supposed to exist.
He reached inward, combing through the fragments of old Julien's memories.
Then he found it: 'Imperial Year 1606.'
And the last year he remembered before performing the possession ritual…
'1600.'
Six years.
No Mage Tower could have built a teleportation gate in six years.
Something didn't add up.
Julien's gaze shifted to Mira. His voice dropped, low and deliberate. "How far is the nearest Mage Tower?"
Mira blinked. "Mage… Tower?"
She tilted her head, visibly confused.
"What's that, Young Master?"
Julien stared at her—silent.
"A mage," he said slowly, studying her. "Do you know what that is?"
She gave a small, awkward smile.
"A mage? Like… in fairy tales?"
Julien leaned back.
Expression unreadable. Eyes dull. Still.
Silence settled between them—colder than before.
And in that moment, the last doubt vanished.
It wasn't that the Rothvale name was unfamiliar because he'd been locked away.
It wasn't that old Julien's memories hadn't been transferred fully.
No.
It was something else.
The boy he had possessed hadn't just come from another land—
He had transmigrated to another world.