CHAPTER 13: CHAPTER NO.13 MASSAGE

[Location: Morningstar Manor, New York]

Grayfia entered my room, with me in tow, head down with shame.

No, not shame from a battlefield defeat. Not shame from losing to a rival. Not even shame from being toyed with by one of my yandere wives-to-be.

No, it was worse.

Grayfia had caught me almost collapsing from a damn training routine.

That... That was my reality now.

My pride as a Morningstar was bleeding out somewhere in the carpet fibres of my absurdly luxurious bedroom.

The moment we stepped inside, Grayfia snapped her fingers and the gothic chandelier above us flickered to life, bathing the room in silvery luminescence. The polished blackwood floor gleamed. Crimson drapes shifted slightly despite no open windows. The entire chamber looked more fit for an immortal emperor than... well... a guy who had just nearly broken his back touching his toes.

I groaned and slumped into the nearest velvet-cushioned armchair like a sack of spoiled potatoes.

Grayfia didn’t say anything immediately. She stood there, her tall, elegant figure framed by the glow, silver hair cascading like frozen moonlight. Her crimson eyes were calm — too calm — the kind of calm that told me she was internally deciding whether to scold me like a child or strip me down and tuck me into bed.

Neither option sounded particularly merciful.

"Master Dominic," she finally said, voice low, smooth, and deliberate. "You have only just awakened from your millennia of stasis. Pushing your body recklessly is... unwise."

I dragged a hand down my face. "Unwise is one word for it. Catastrophic ego death is another."

Her lips twitched. A flicker. Was that almost—almost—a smile? Or maybe I was hallucinating.

"You should have called for me." She stepped closer, her heels silent against the floor. "I would have assisted in your rehabilitation."

"Yeah," I muttered, "nothing says ’independent prince’ like needing my maid to help me stretch my hamstrings."

She stopped right before me, leaning ever so slightly forward, her perfume — a cold, crisp scent like snow over steel — filling my senses.

"You are my prince," Grayfia said softly, as if that justified everything. "Your pride means nothing if your body shatters."

My chest tightened despite myself. Damn her. She knew how to slip the knife in just right — with loyalty so absolute it hurt worse than mockery.

"...Fine," I exhaled, slumping deeper into the chair. "Do what you want. Clearly I’m useless on my own."

Her eyes glimmered faintly. "Then, I shall."

Before I could protest, she gestured, and with a whisper of demonic magic the armchair elongated, reshaping itself into a padded recliner. She snapped again, and an assortment of oils and salves materialized on a tray beside us, each bottle etched with sigils that shimmered faintly.

Oh. Oh no.

"You can’t be serious," I said quickly, sitting up straighter. "Grayfia. Tell me you’re not planning—"

Her hands were already on my shoulders, firm but cool to the touch. "You are tense, Master. The strain of your... valiant training has left you knotted. A massage will help restore circulation and accelerate healing."

I stared at her. She stared back, completely unflinching, as if the most natural course of action in the world was to knead her prince into submission.

"...This is entrapment," I whispered.

Her thumbs pressed into the base of my neck, and a shiver jolted down my spine. "Breathe, Master."

Oh, hell.

...

Ten Minutes Later

I wanted to say I resisted. That I fought valiantly against the indignity of being pampered like some fragile porcelain doll.

But...

"Ooooh god," I groaned, eyes half-lidded as Grayfia’s fingers worked like enchanted steel into my shoulder blades. "Okay. Okay. I take it back. Never stop. I’ll sign whatever cult contract you want."

She tilted her head, expression serene as always, but there was a glimmer of satisfaction in her gaze. "You were trembling earlier. Your muscles are far weaker than you realise."

"You’re weaker than I realise," I mumbled into the chair, words slurring from bliss.

"...That makes no sense."

"Neither does how good this feels."

The scent of her cooling oils filled the air, mixed with something faintly floral. Her touch was precise — too precise — not just a maid, not just a warrior, but someone who had memorised every joint, every scar, every flaw of my body over a thousand years of vigil.

Every press of her fingers wasn’t just mechanical. It was personal.

And that realisation was somehow more terrifying than any demon scout or looming Satan daughter.

"Grayfia, I might marry you at this rate," I blabbled out as grunts filled the room, my voice halfway between delirium and moans.

Her hands didn’t stop. Not for a second. Her fingers dug deep into the layers of tension running down my back like they were peeling apart the sins of my past life.

"I would not object," she said calmly.

...

I froze.

Not because she stopped the massage—no, hell no, she was still pressing just the right spot along my spine—but because she had just casually dropped that.

I twisted my head slightly, one eye peeking back at her. "Excuse me, what?"

Grayfia’s expression didn’t waver. Calm. Serene. Eternal winter incarnate. "If it pleases you, I would not object to marriage."

I blinked. My brain short-circuited. A thousand sarcastic comebacks lined up, but none made it past my lips.

Instead, all I managed was: "You—you can’t just say that while you’re elbow-deep in my vertebrae, woman."

"I fail to see why not."

Her tone was flat. Neutral. But her eyes... oh, those eyes glimmered faintly, like ruby embers caught under a sheen of frost.

"Or are you backing out, my prince~"

Grayfia’s words were soft, but the undertone... oh no. That undertone was lethal.

The kind of tone that could turn into an execution order if I so much as breathed wrong.

And there I was—face mashed into a pillow, half-drunk on endorphins, while my demonic maid basically proposed marriage mid-massage.

System? Hello? Any chance of an emergency teleport option? A fake phone call? A lightning strike?

Nothing. Of course. Traitor.

I cleared my throat. Or at least tried to—what came out sounded more like a dying toad. "Grayfia, I, uh... I appreciate the enthusiasm but—"

Her hands pressed down harder along my spine. Not painful. Not threatening. Just... controlling. Reminding.

"You are hesitating."

"I’m not hesitating. I’m... clarifying." My voice cracked like a pubescent bard. Perfect. Just what I needed. "Marriage proposals usually come with, I don’t know, rings? Flowers? Dramatic confessions under a blood moon? Not—" I groaned as her fingers found a knot in my lower back and reduced me to mush. "—not with deep-tissue spinal corrections."

Her voice was even, smooth as flowing ice. "If my lord prefers the blood moon, I can arrange that too~"

I give up.

"Come. Here."

My voice oozed with something between command and desperation. A weird cocktail of princely authority, raw exhaustion, and the kind of lust for survival only a man pinned between a sadistic System and a possibly-yandere maid could feel.

Grayfia did not hesitate. She leaned closer, her hands pressing down one final time on my back before she glided around the recliner. Her silver hair swept across my vision like a curtain of moonlight, her crimson eyes locking onto mine.

Too close. Way, way too close.

Her face hovered inches above me, unreadable. Her scent—sharp, clean, cold like fresh snow—seeped into my senses, suffocating me.

"...Master?" she whispered, tone deceptively soft.

My throat went dry. The word I had wanted to throw at her—some witty retort, some sarcastic deflection—died before it even reached my tongue. Instead, all I managed was:

"You... are terrifying."

Her brows arched ever so slightly. Then, to my horror, she leaned even closer, until her lips were nearly brushing my ear.

"That is acceptable."

...Oh, fantastic. Not only did I have seven psychotic wives-to-be waiting in the wings, now my maid had just unofficially volunteered herself as candidate number eight—no it’s nine, if I count my own mother.

"If you don’t act professionally, I’m warning you, I will kiss you stupid."

The words slipped out before I could throttle them back into my throat.

And as soon as they did, silence fell.

Heavy silence.

The kind of silence that makes you wonder if you just signed a peace treaty or a death warrant.

Grayfia didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink. Her crimson eyes burned into mine, steady as a blade pressed against my jugular.

"Then you would be the unprofessional one," she murmured, lips brushing dangerously close to my ear.

...Well. Touché.

I opened my mouth to retort, but nothing came out. My pride and my tongue had officially filed for divorce. My brain decided to skip straight past words and instead offered a few choice survival instincts:

1. Faint dramatically.

2. Run away and hope she respected cardio.

3. Pretend to be asleep.

None of which were particularly dignified for a Morningstar prince.

"Y-You’re impossible," I muttered finally, retreating into sarcasm as my last line of defence. "Do you have a manual for this? ’How to Undress Your Master’s Soul While Giving Him a Back Massage’?"

Her lips curved faintly. Not a smile. A promise. "I wrote the manual."

My heart did an uncomfortable somersault. Great. Wonderful. Kill me now.

But who am I kidding? I want to kiss this bewitching menace of a maid.

Except, you know, nope. Bad idea. Catastrophic idea. If I leaned in right now, she’d probably file it away under "Mission Complete" and then casually shackle my soul to her for eternity.

"Master," she said again, softer now. Not whispering. Not commanding. Just... saying it. The word rolled through the room like smoke, wrapping around my throat.

My heart thudded once, twice. My brain screamed at me to deflect. To joke. To summon a damn distraction.

So I did the only thing a sane Morningstar could.

I sneezed.

"Ah-CHOO!"

The timing was divine. Her silver hair whipped back an inch, her crimson eyes narrowing with all the frozen displeasure of an ice goddess denied her offering.

"Really," she said flatly.

"Hey," I sniffled, waving a lazy hand. "Not my fault. You’re intoxicating. My immune system panicked."

The silence that followed could have been carved into a tombstone. But—miracle of miracles—she stepped back. Just a fraction. Just enough for me to breathe again.

"Rest," Grayfia said, voice neutral once more, though I swore I saw the faintest twitch at the corner of her lips. "Your body is not yet prepared for extended strain."

"Neither is my heart," I muttered under my breath.

Her eyes flicked to me. Caught. Again. Damn it.

"Sleep," she repeated. This time, it was an order. Then she glided to the door, her silhouette framed by the silver glow of the chandelier. "I shall return later to check on you."

And with that, she was gone.

Leaving me slumped in the recliner, smelling like a snowstorm, with my spine feeling like it had been rebuilt by an ancient chiropractor goddess.

***

Stone me, I can take it!

Goal: 100 Power Stones for an EXTRA Chapter tomorrow.