Chapter 7: Let the Banquet Begin!

Back in his room, Ewan lay sprawled on a bed so obscenely luxurious it felt like sleeping on a cloud woven from angel feathers. With a deep sigh, he began to meticulously map out the steps to his own glorious downfall.

“First: The Preparation.”

As the son of a duke celebrating his once-in-a-lifetime coming-of-age, his entrance had to be nothing short of legendary. He needed to radiate an aura so powerful that he could simply stand still and, like the eye of a hurricane, command the absolute attention of the entire room. To achieve this, a team of more than ten senior maids would descend upon him before dawn, managing every detail of his appearance. Every single strand of hair would be tamed and placed in its divinely ordained position. Honestly, when he’d first seen the formal suit that afternoon—a magnificent creation so encrusted with precious metals it nearly seared his retinas—his first thought was that he was going to suffocate. His greatest challenge tomorrow might not be the icy princess, but the ridiculously ornate, twenty-kilogram suit of formal armor.

“Then: Greeting the Guests with father.”

This ceremony was his formal debut, a declaration to the entire aristocratic world that Ewan Campbell was now officially on the market. He could now participate in and host various events as the heir to the duchy, and more importantly, express his admiration for a noble lady of suitable standing and enter into a sacred marriage contract. Of course, since he was already engaged to the third princess, that last part was automatically off the table for him. But tomorrow, every noble in the capital would don their most splendid attire, bring their most accomplished children, and attend this grand event. It wasn’t just a party; it was a staircase leading ever upward. Every noble would use their finery as a shield and their smiles as swords, all vying to climb higher.

“Next: Fending off the Nobles.”

This, mercifully, was the easy part. The lingering instincts of the original Ewan, the muscle memory of a lifetime of aristocratic schmoozing, would carry him through. His only job was to stand there, look handsome, and smile. A smile that said, “I am a distinguished duke’s son,” and not, “I am internally screaming about my impending, self-inflicted doom.”

“And finally… the Main Event.”

Ewan’s hand unconsciously drifted to the two small vials hidden beneath his pillow.

This was it. The climax.

“Step one: Gain Celicia’s trust and get her alone.” That part would be surprisingly easy. Even in her wildest imagination, Princess Celicia would never suspect that the oafish Ewan Campbell had the sheer audacity to drug her. His status as her fiancé was the perfect cover.

“Step two: Drug her.” This was the crux of the operation. If he was caught too early, the whole beautiful, tragic plan would go up in smoke. “But it should be fine,” he reasoned. After all, this was how the story was supposed to go. The universe itself would probably conspire to ensure his success. All he had to do was slip the potion into her wine when she wasn’t looking.

“And then… I just wait for my ruin?”

A dry, self-deprecating laugh escaped his lips. “I must be the first transmigrator in history to actively root for his own destruction.” He blew out the candle. “Please, just let nothing go wrong with my plan to ruin my life.”

Outside, the bright moonlight filtered through the tree branches, casting mottled shadows across Ewan’s handsome face, as inscrutable as fate itself. A gentle breeze rustled the leaves, and the shadows swayed as if praying for everything to go smoothly on the morrow.

…

The next day.

After enduring a three-hour beautification ordeal that felt more like a medieval torture session, Ewan, now imprisoned within the magnificent twenty-kilogram suit, stood at the entrance to the grand banquet hall next to the lion-like figure of his father.

His golden hair was styled to impeccable perfection. A touch of cosmetics had erased the last hints of boyishness from his face, lending him a devastatingly mature charm. Paired with the outrageously heavy but undeniably regal suit, Ewan shone like a rising sun, emitting a divine radiance that was almost blinding, yet irresistibly drew every eye in the room. When he’d looked in the mirror, he had once again been left breathless by his own reflection.

Unfortunately, no matter how inhumanly handsome he appeared, the noble ladies who approached to offer their greetings kept their heads bowed and their gazes fixed firmly on the floor, as if terrified that making eye contact would get them into trouble.

Sigh. The original’s reputation is truly in the toilet, Ewan lamented. In the minds of the capital’s young women, “Ewan Campbell” was synonymous with “lecherous bully” and “human stallion.” The fact that his infamous name managed to completely eclipse the golden title of “Duke’s Son” spoke volumes.

“Hey, kid! Look over there!”

Just as Ewan was wallowing in despair, his father clapped him on the back with enough force to nearly dislodge a lung. “Look who’s arrived.”

Ewan didn’t need to be told where to look. His gaze, along with the gazes of every sycophant noble, and even the timid young ladies who had been avoiding his eyes, all snapped in the same direction. It was as if a brilliant, heavenly spotlight had suddenly cut through the ballroom’s dim ambiance.

And bathed in its light was a single young woman.

Her hair was the color of liquid moonlight, a flawless, silvery-white cascade that flowed down her back. Her delicate features were sculpted from the purest winter ice, so perfect they seemed unreal. Her fine, silvery lashes were dusted with what looked like frost, and beneath them, a pair of blue eyes shimmered like glacial lakes holding ancient, silent stars. They were clear and cold, yet so deep they threatened to pull you in and steal your very soul.

She wore a simple white gown, elegant in its austerity, yet the moment she appeared, she became the new center of the universe, capturing the unwavering attention of every soul present.

“So this… is Celicia.”

The third princess of the Leopold Empire, the child blessed by the Goddess of Ice and Snow, the Ice Witch herself, Celicia von Leopold.

The living, breathing source of Ewan Campbell’s epic downfall had, at long last, arrived.

“I knew it… words and pictures could never do her justice.”

Even though he was prepared, the sight of her in person struck him with the force of a physical blow. In his past life, he had been a die-hard Celicia fan, a connoisseur of fan art. He’d seen masterpieces that he had immediately saved and then enthusiastically drooled over for three days and three nights.. But seeing the real thing, he realized that even the most brilliant artist couldn’t capture a tenth of her captivating, otherworldly charm.

“It has been a while, Lord Ewan.”

While he was still reeling, Celicia glided gracefully before him.

“It has indeed, Princess Celicia.” Ewan snapped out of his daze, executing a flawless, gentlemanly bow. “You look exceptionally lovely this evening.”

“Is that so? You flatter me.” Celicia replied with a perfect curtsy, her every move a portrait of aristocratic grace. Yet, her flawless etiquette carried an arctic chill, a polite but firm wall of ice that kept the world at a distance. “Though, I must admit, it is rare to hear such words from your lips, Lord Ewan.”

“Haha, you jest, Your Highness. You make me sound like some kind of uncultured boor who can’t even manage a simple compliment.”

Am I wrong? A flicker of genuine, undeniable confusion passed through Celicia’s cold, clear eyes.