Chapter 34
The Mask Tightens
The candlelight flickered against the carved wood of the study, painting Ouroboros in shifting patterns of gold and shadow. He sat perfectly still, chin resting lightly against his knuckles, his crimson gaze fixed on the serpent-shaped sigil that glowed faintly along his wrist. The connection to Voldrack and Zaratul pulsed, offering their voices, their guidance.
He silenced them.
This was not a moment for demons. This was not a moment for shadows. This was a moment for control — human control — and for the precise application of art.
He leaned back, letting the silence thicken. Strategy unfolded in his mind with mathematical clarity. His parents — or rather, Xin Min's parents — were suspicious. Their instincts were correct. But instincts could be tamed, turned inward, redirected until they doubted themselves.
"Seduction," he whispered into the quiet. "The slow poison."
Not the seduction of flesh, but of perception. He would make them believe they had misjudged. And for that, he needed to weaponize the Art of Seduction called the most powerful tool: familiarity with a hint of surprise.
The Strategy of the Mask
Ouroboros sifted through the fragmented memories he had inherited when he stepped into Xin Min's life. Scenes of tantrums, violent outbursts at servants, the casual cruelty toward weaker classmates. A spoiled heir drunk on his own impunity. That was the role Xin Min had played before.
He smiled. How perfect.
Too much change had drawn suspicion. Then the solution was simple: restore the mask. Be Xin Min again. Not all the time — no, only in doses. Enough to remind his parents of the boy they knew, while weaving in calculated moments of vulnerability that made him seem more human.
It was a balance of shadow and light. Too much cruelty, and they would grow wary. Too much composure, and they would sense the impostor. But if he sprinkled their expectations carefully — arrogance here, petulance there — they would swallow the illusion whole.
The Performance Begins
The next morning, the household gathered for breakfast. The long lacquered table gleamed beneath the chandeliers, servants placing steaming bowls of congee, roasted duck, and fresh fruit.
Xin Jian and Lin Yue sat at opposite ends, masks of parental dignity concealing the restless calculation in their eyes.
Then Ouroboros — no, Xin Min — entered.
He did not glide with the unnatural grace of Ouroboros. He stomped, hands shoved in his pockets, his expression twisted into a scowl. He kicked the leg of a chair before flopping into it, grabbing chopsticks without waiting for the blessing.
"Finally," he muttered, stabbing at the food. "Do you know how boring this house is? Same food, same walls, same faces. I swear, if you two didn't smother me with rules, I'd move out tomorrow."
Xin Jian's brows twitched. Lin Yue's lips pressed thin. For a moment, suspicion wavered. That tone — arrogant, ungrateful, childish — was the son they remembered.
"Xin Min," Lin Yue said sharply. "Show some respect."
He smirked, leaning back in his chair. "Respect? Please. Everyone out there bows to me. Why should I bow in here?"
His father's eyes narrowed. "Because this is your family."
For a heartbeat, the mask threatened to slip. Ouroboros felt the weight of Jian's scrutiny, sharp as a blade. But instead of resisting, he allowed a crack to show. He softened his smirk into something smaller, almost weary.
"Family, huh…" He muttered it low enough that they barely caught it, a shadow of bitterness in his tone. "Yeah. Sure."
Then he returned to eating, dismissive once more.
The Parents' Doubt
After breakfast, Lin Yue lingered in the garden, her hands wrapped around her tea cup. She replayed her son's words, the way he had slouched in his chair, the familiar arrogance.
"Did we… imagine it?" she asked softly.
Xin Jian stood beside her, arms folded, his jaw tight. "He seemed the same this morning."
"And last night, you swore—"
"I know what I saw." Jian's tone cut like steel. But then his voice faltered. "Still… arrogance, defiance… those are his habits. Perhaps we read too deeply."
Lin Yue exhaled slowly, relief mingling with unease. "Perhaps we just wanted to see something that wasn't there."
Ouroboros' Quiet Triumph
In the study, Ouroboros reclined in his chair, a faint smile tugging at his lips. He had not needed shadows or blades. Only words, gestures, familiarity. Already their suspicion softened. Already they second-guessed their instincts.
The key to control, he thought, is not to silence doubt, but to seed greater doubt in the doubter.
He replayed the morning's scene in his mind, like an actor reviewing his own performance. The stomp of the foot, the smirk, the childish arrogance. Perfect. He had resurrected Xin Min's ghost within himself, but added just enough shadow — that fleeting bitterness, that subtle sigh — to suggest depth, to make his parents believe he was not possessed, merely moody.
And so their eyes would shift away.
The Final Touch
That evening, he made one last move. As he passed Lin Yue in the corridor, he paused, hesitated, then muttered without looking at her:
"Sorry for breakfast. I… didn't mean to talk back like that."
The words were awkward, clumsy, half-swallowed. Just like a young man too proud to admit guilt, but still tethered by filial instinct.
Lin Yue blinked, startled. Her heart softened, tension unraveling just a little more.
"Goodnight, Xin Min," she said gently.
He walked away without answering.
But in the darkness, Ouroboros smiled. The mask had tightened. And the tighter it clung, the less likely they would ever see the face beneath.