The Genova Bloodline's Inescapable Curse
The Genova Count family, bloodline of Ferzen von Schweig Brutein—no, more precisely, the Genova Count family from which Isabel Ron Pierre Genova hailed. Their lineage was inevitably a needle in the sack, born with exceptional talent in at least one field. As such, the family's prestige and growth rate were overwhelmingly dominant.
In particular, Isabel Ron Pierre Genova had achieved the feat of becoming an Apollyon-rank elemental mage at the mere age of sixteen. Naturally, many families coveted marriage into the Genova Counts to infuse that bloodline into their own. Yet the Genova family steadfastly pursued consanguineous marriages, maintaining an extraordinarily insular stance.
Though few voiced it openly, many secretly criticized the Genova family's ways behind closed doors. On the flip side, no small number believed there was value in going to such extremes to preserve the purity of their bloodline. After all, every single Genova bore unmistakable brilliance without exception.
But the Genova family's extreme insularity wasn't solely for the sake of blood purity. It stemmed from the curse that bound them—a price exacted for their blessing of unparalleled talent in some domain.
The inevitable affliction of the Genova bloodline: at nineteen, under the full moon, they would seize in monstrous frenzy.
…
Yes.
Leaning her head against the carriage window, Laura de Charles Rosenberg vividly recalled the memories of her past life—as Isabel Ron Pierre Genova.
On her nineteenth birthday. As the full moon rose, her family gathered at the mansion as if by appointment, dragging her to the basement they had kept her from approaching, insisting the time hadn't come. There, she witnessed an unbelievable scene of tragedy.
Her gentle, dignified mother, merged in beastly rut with feral animals in copulation. Her stern father, who always smiled warmly at her, greedily devouring human flesh… The Genova bloodline, assembled, unleashing their affliction in a mad revelry.
Isabel tried to flee at once, but she too was Genova flesh and blood.
When the child from the territory's orphanage—whom she had occasionally visited and doted on as especially cute—was dragged in as human fodder, spotted her, and wailed for help, Isabel tortured and killed the poor thing with utmost cruelty.
A quirk that craved murdering those who harbored goodwill toward her.
Tears streaming from her dwindling reason, Isabel drowned in ecstasy as she defiled and shattered the child's innocent affection.
Come morning, the family—save the dazed Isabel—calmly exited the basement and resumed daily life.
Isabel, giggling like a madwoman, only staggered forth by afternoon to learn the truth of her house.
Thus she realized their incest wasn't for blood purity, but to conceal this hideous underbelly.
Revulsion churned in her gut at the Genova blood coursing through her veins, fit to induce vomiting. Yet seeing her family revert as if last night were a dream, Isabel desperately averted her eyes from reality.
But the recurring full-moon frenzies gnawed at her sanity. After two years of futile struggle to eradicate the family curse, her father's urging to wed her brother forced her decision.
To erase the Genova name from the world.
As a woman, passing the curse to her child would be torture akin to torment. Thus, she became a witch.
Slaying the innocent, branding the Genova bloodline so inescapably that no matter how deeply they hid, their vein would sever—assassinating royalty to etch the stigma.
She spared her own family not from inability, deeming herself unworthy as kin, and wishing to preserve the family's outward glory.
Acting alone, Isabel shouldered all infamy, cloaked the house's secret in death, and wiped Genova from history.
The sole blemish recorded: birthing the witch called Isabel.
I'm the only one who knows this truth…
In the smoothly gliding carriage, Laura could only sigh repeatedly at the unresolved mystery.
On her thirteenth birthday, the sudden flood of her past life's wretched, ugly memories had been utterly shocking. The trauma left her stuttering, but it made her cherish her current happiness all the more keenly.
I'm the only one who fully understands Isabel Ron Pierre Genova's life. So why was it stolen?
Hearing the imperial family would auction Isabel's—her past self's—corpse, Laura desperately wanted it.
To reclaim that miserable moment from her previous life, to watch herself bloom happy in this new grasp on existence.
She nearly despaired upon learning House Brutein would bid, but acquiring Ferzen's past remarks by chance sparked hope.
Frankly, she couldn't believe Ferzen had cleanly triumphed in a contest of momentary comprehension and proficiency, pitting equal rank and mana.
House Brutein, after all. She assumed countless challengers deliberately lost to boost their fame in sycophantic "entertainment."
Yet Laura lost utterly.
Despite fully grasping Isabel Ron Pierre Genova's life, her servant corpse was taken.
How in the world…
His insight—deducing her cigar aficionado from scant clues, among others—was impressive, but mere faint shards of Isabel's existence.
That bastard…!
Retracing slowly, Laura recalled Ferzen stripping her past self's—Isabel's—pants, inspecting her groin, and muttering impassively:
—No experience with men, it seems. No discoloration either.
His voice was flat, gaze emotionless. To Laura, the subject, utter humiliation.
"M-Miss. A-Are you alright?"
"F-F-Fine."
Her nursemaid fussed, as an albino whose blush showed instantly.
"Still… he's not as prickly as I feared. Forcing periodic presentations is harsh, but never appearing in society, I expected major flaws."
"Y-Yeah…"
Nodding, Laura leaned back more comfortably.
Even with perfect comprehension, losing the corpse meant his necromantic talent exceeded imagination.
So he won't teach his personal know-how…
Even harboring memories of an Apollyon-rank elemental mage changed little for her current self, talented in black magic.
Fields mismatched entirely.
Acquiring such expertise required vast sums for a private tutor, bound by mana oath of nondisclosure.
He'd drone general theory in dull lectures, grade with rote tests.
Refusing "thorough reading" too soon marked him a typical gatekeeper.
Don't wanna go…
Rosenberg's renown would curb overt whispers, but her stutter would draw sneers.
No real learning anyway. Dull days ahead.
Yet defying imperial prestige risked unknown reprisals.
"You'll miss celebrating your nineteenth birthday in the territory. Such a shame."
"Ah, y-yeah…"
Laura flinched at her nursemaid's words.
"Nineteenth birthday" was trauma incarnate.
Of course, her current body lacked Genova blood. Surely, nothing would happen.
* * * * *
Unlike stark Ruerg, gazing at the dense spires of Brutein, Euphemia el Lerenne Ruerg stepped forward wide-eyed, like a kitten adopted into a new home.
"Enter anywhere that catches your eye. I'll follow without interfering, mere shadow to your steps."
In the bustling crowds, I trailed Euphemia, eyes fixed solely on her back.
"No need to fret over coin."
"…"
She shrugged, paused, then resumed.
"Eat if you wish."
Her gaze lingered on a street stall seducing passersby with sweet scents.
"I know your appetites well. A light fill beforehand troubles me not."
"I thought you'd call me base…"
True enough. This body recoiled, but suppressible.
Lee Seojin's ego softened food views somewhat.
From a modern lens, medieval finery seemed hardly elegant.
"Want some?"
I shook my head. No desire t—
No. "I'll have some too."
Eleven chunks on the lamb skewer. Buying one makes twenty-two with Euphemia's.
"Th-Three… three vern."
"No change needed."
"What?"
I held minimal silver; three vern demanded ninety-seven coppers back—unpalatable asymmetry.
Eighty-six? No, lest I reveal OCD hints before Euphemia. Best choice.
"Wasting coin…"
She eyed me like a madman, but I ignored, savoring the surprisingly decent lamb.
"Eat carefully, lest sauce stain your garb."
"I-I'm not that sloppy."
Discarding her sackcloth, pristine frilled white dress now—sauce splatter disastrous.
No mysophobia, so symmetric stains might soothe, but odds infinitesimal.
After leisurely touring Brutein, I led Euphemia to a nearby eatery.
With territory folk's wealth, ample venues circulated coin; many offered cuisine befitting Ferzen's palate.
"Euphemia."
"Wh-What…"
"No need to cower here."
Seeing her hunch amid opulent decor, I sighed disdainfully.
"Your self-esteem's absence borders on pathological."
My handiwork contributed, admittedly.
"Not cowering… Ah!"
"…? What's wrong."
"N-Nothing."
Pulling her chair, Euphemia winced, raising her hand.
Her right middle finger oozed faint blood.
"Chair wood grain snagged it, just a graze… B-But my left hand's fine?"
"…"
She puzzled at my gripping her left, then displayed her unscathed right in bewilderment.
Yes, I know. No fool would confuse.
Merely…
"I'll step out briefly."
As she clung lingeringly, I wrenched free, exiting to the rear alley, forehead in hand.
Seeing her right middle wound, I'd unconsciously sought to mirror on her left.
Had I, she'd recoil in shock, perhaps sob hysterically.
Fortunate, then.
Turn the left cheek if smitten right. Smite left if right turned—such is Ferzen.
Yet when Euphemia slapped my cheek, striking diagonally symmetric succeeded, granting calm.
For she is wife, I husband—marital equilibrium.
Grind!
Thus I raised my left, gnawing the matching middle finger.
Fucking hurts.
Beyond prick or slice, biting wracks deeper agony.
Squelch!
Yet relief eclipsed pain—the gut-wrenching unease dissolved.
Exhaling steadily, I squeezed the beaded blood from my left middle onto the ground, staunched with handkerchief for three to five minutes, then reentered casually unscathed.