In the grand mansion standing proudly atop the city hill, the atmosphere appeared calm and orderly. The servants moved quickly yet silently, as if unwilling to disturb the air thick with tension. On the upper floor, the sound of heavy footsteps echoed through the long corridor.

Reginald.

The man was known to be cold and firm. His gaze was sharp, as if it could slice through intentions before they were ever spoken. He disliked small talk and never appreciated surprises.

But today, his face looked slightly different. A faint line of unease formed between his slightly raised brows. He stopped in front of his assistant, who stood with his head bowed and a folder in hand.

"Where is my wife?" He asked, his voice calm yet cold, like a moonless night shadow.

The assistant, a young man with a neat appearance and eyes full of tension, immediately replied, "In the training room, Sir."

Reginald said nothing. He only gave a cold nod, then walked toward the designated room. His shoes clicked softly on the marble floor, creating a rhythm that shook the air.

As his hand touched the handle of the training room door and slowly pushed it open, suddenly a knife shot out from the gap in the door, striking his cheek and leaving a thin cut that instantly began to bleed.

Reginald stepped back a split second faster than any normal human and narrowed his eyes. The wound didn’t make him angry—instead, it made him smirk.

"Woah, calm down, woman."

From inside the room, you stood tall with your breath slightly ragged. Sweat dripped from your temple after an hour of intense throwing practice.